


Worlds Afire

by lmeden



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:31:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is standing in his small apartment, a long match in his hand, blazing with light at its tip, when it begins. (Art by slanted_edges. ♥)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worlds Afire

**Author's Note:**

> I must thank Neal Stephenson, whose works are unspeakably beautiful, and which inspired many of the locales used in this story, as well as some of the phrases. Also great thanks to many cinematic achievements (Buster Keaton’s _The General_ , _Kind Hearts and Coronets_ , Thomas Edison’s short film archive) for providing me with period atmosphere and inspiration. To spikeface, whose musings on Inception and its fandom really burrowed into my brain and shaped some of the motivations herein. And thanks, most of all, to my betas. Thank you so much pushdragon; you helped me discover what was holding this story back. Thank you jeannedecarnin, for helping me whip imagery and plot into shape. And the most thanks of all, viva_gloria; you were endlessly and tirelessly encouraging to me, and you really helped me to finish this story. knowmydark, I hope that you love this. I really do. You are such an inspiration to me every day, in your writing, your eloquence, and your bright spirit. I hope that this story expresses that. Enjoy. ♥

The rain comes upon San Francisco like a Great Fire, touching the outskirts of the city lightly before spreading across every building in reach, drenching citizens and homes alike with a biting fury. Arthur is standing in his small apartment, a long match held gently between his fingers. It blazes with light at its tip. He lights the last candle.

As he raises the match to blow out its end, he sees the clock on the mantle; the hands point to 12:17. It is the afternoon – Arthur heard the church bells signaling masses celebrated, just a few hours ago. And yet, though only sheer muslin curtains his windows, it is dark – so much so that Arthur can believe that an unexpected twilight has drawn up over the world.

There is knocking upon his door.

Arthur lives in an upstairs apartment, so the front door is around a corner and down a set of stairs. He lets it be. The family who lives in the apartment below will answer it soon enough, or whoever is knocking will go away. Arthur tosses the match into the lit fireplace and watches as it begins to curl. The mirror above the fireplace reflects his face, pale and thin under black hair swept cleanly back. The tight knot of his four-in-hand nestles just under his chin, and his waistcoat cleaves close to his waist. His shirtsleeves are loose, the edges worn thin with use.

Behind him, a soft golden light fills the room. It is tempered by the dull gleam of the cloud-hidden sun from behind the curtains (which Arthur’s landlady hung ages before he came to live here and which he hasn’t bothered to change). A heavy wingback sits next to the fireplace, warmed by the flames. An open book balances on one of its arms - _Madame Bovary_ \- recently published, and when read in French, one of the most lyrical and captivating books Arthur has ever had the pleasure of holding.

A second set of knocks upon his door.

Arthur would much rather read Flaubert than answer it. Anyone could be out there. A messenger with news, a neighbor caught without his key. Simply opening the door will let the cold rain, fresh from the sea, in. No, I will stay right here, Arthur thinks as he settles himself into the embrasure of his chair, and slides _Madame Bovary_ onto his lap. He has read just four words - _et Charles suffoquiat comme_ \- when it comes again.

Another set of knocks, this time hard and resounding raps; more likely produced by the head of a cane than a set of human knucklebones.

Arthur holds back his sigh and stands. He closes _la Madame_ and leaves her behind as he steps swiftly across the room, snatching up his tailcoat, to throw on over his waistcoat and linen shirt. He tightens his four-in-hand minutely and lifts a fireplace poker, as his walking stick is not immediately evident, and Arthur likes to have something weighty on hand. He leave his pistol on the writing desk.

If the knocker does not produce a _damned good_ reason for disturbing Arthur’s reading, he fully intends to send them away grievously injured. He steps lightly down the stairs towards the front door, sending a disparaging look towards the neighbor’s closed door – out, damn them – and strides forward. He wrenches the door open to find Dominic Cobb upon his stoop, fist raised to knock yet again. The man is soaked. Dark circles pool beneath his eyes, and his lips purse against the cold. Arthur flushes as chill air rushes in around him.

Arthur’s annoyance, if anything, doubles. Of all people, Dominic Cobb is one of the few faces that he wanted, unequivocally, to see nothing of for at least a few months. But Arthur knows his etiquette, though he was raised on the streets.

He stretches a tight smile across his face. “Dominic, what an unexpected pleasure. Please come in. Come up.”

Dominic steps inside as if he hasn’t moved for days. He lifts his top hat off his head and lets his soaked overcoat slide off his back. It tumbles into Arthur’s arms, and Arthur must bite back a physical curse as he deftly twists the coat around so that its dry side faces him and hangs it, and the top hat, on heavy hooks screwed into the wall. Arthur straightens his own jacket and turns around; Dominic is watching him. “We should go upstairs,” he volunteers, and Arthur replies,

“Yes, of course.”

Arthur allows Dominic to go first, as the stairway is narrow and allows only one person to ascend at a time. Perhaps if they were children they could have walked together, but that time has long since passed. Arthur watches Dominic walk, ahead of him. When they enter Arthur’s parlor, or what passes as such, Dominic stops and waits until Arthur steps through the doorway before reaching into his waistcoat and pulling a small package from an inner pocket.

It is a folded parchment, delicately forced into a square of the perfect size to rest in Arthur’s palm. The corners are dirty and creased, as if the package is old and worn. Arthur takes it and finds that one of the folded edges is loose. It falls open and onto his palm is delivered a small, cool coin.

It is comparable in size and color to a quarter, except that instead of a stamped mark upon its faces, each of its sides bears an intricate, abstract, golden design that glimmers with the candlelight. There is no reason to the pattern – mere whimsy, it appears. Arthur glances up, confused, but sees that Dominic has moved forward and is now pushing through the papers on his desk. Knowing that he will not be able to stop him, Arthur looks back down at the coin. And then, after a long moment of utter mental silence, it clicks into place.

A Carrier.

What Arthur holds in his palm is a cast disc of brass, upon it is a design called an Interface. Interfaces and the Carriers that, well, carry them, are said to be able to hold messages in them – letters from one to another that will not erode, decay, or ever be destroyed. But Carriers are little use outside of a major city, in which Interfaces are expanded from the edge of coins and even onto the edges of buildings, all to facilitate the travel of words. In Arthur’s city, San Francisco, Carriers are mythology. This city is too young to have such niceties. Arthur, for all his traveling, has never seen a Carrier before.

He flips over the parchment that Dominic brought the Carrier within, and finds Dominic’s address written neatly on the outside. He looks up to see Dominic moving towards him, a flat, blank parchment held in his outstretched hand.

“Here. Read it.”

The Carrier contains a message, of course, and so as Arthur takes the parchment from Dominic he struggles to remember exactly what he has heard about extracting said messages. Finally, a ghost of a rumor surfaces in his thoughts. Taking the parchment to a side table and leaning over it, Arthur places the Carrier onto the top righthand corner of the page and presses his finger into its center.

A tiny vibration travels all the way to his first knuckle before fading. The air over the parchment shivers, as if in a sudden heat haze, and black words appear on the page, in the same neat writing as had given Dominic’s address on the envelope.

  
_You must come, quickly. This is a matter of life and death, and I need you.  
Saito_   


Arthur’s lips part with a tiny gasp. Saito, asking for help? It is nearly unthinkable. The man’s pride is so overwhelming, and his self control so great, that Arthur had never thought that Saito would give in so far as to ask for something. Especially assistance.

“We will have to go.”

Arthur pulls the Carrier from the page and the message vanishes like smoke. He closes his mouth and looks up into Dominic’s weary gaze – this is pulling him away from his children, Arthur remembers, and after so long apart already.

“Now?”

“Now.”

Arthur tosses the Carrier to Dominic and rushes to the back room, his bedroom, where a heavy carpetbag sits. In it sits their very own Infernal Device, known as a PASIV, and Arthur has a sinking feeling that they will be needing it to solve the trouble they are apparently in – and in Arthur’s experience, only the worst of troubles can be solved in dreams.

\------

It has taken them nearly two months to travel here, to London, from San Francisco. Much of the journey was made, exceedingly slowly, by rail. It had only been once they reached Chicago that Arthur and Dominic had been able to catch an airship to New York, from there to Nuuk, and finally to London. It has been a laborious and trying trip, and Arthur is tired – from traveling, from worrying, and from carrying the weight of the PASIV (a terrible burden, both physically and mentally) across several nations and a sea.

And now, they are made to wait.

Arthur hears Saito’s footsteps, even and meditative, on the stairs. He tenses, the grip on the delicate china of his teacup becoming perilous. He looks up.

Saito slips his gloves on and tucks his ebony walking stick beneath his arm as he descends the stairs, his attention to accessory an odd gesture, given that Saito is staying indoors, a state hardly recommending the gathering of gloves, stick, and top hat before descending. But Saito has always been unnecessarily formal – and with good reason, given his low standing in Western society (as an Eastern man, he cannot afford to disregard any single, simple courtesy for fear of losing the ground or prestige that he has gained in the years since he moved from Japan to London) – and so Arthur lets his mind move on. It is hardly Saito’s manner of dress that obsesses him at the moment.

Arthur cannot wait to hear what Saito will say – why has he called them so far, sent them such an urgent message? Next to him on the settee, Dominic shifts, his thigh brushing Arthur’s. Arthur can imagine his eyes, dark with shadows, watching Saito unblinkingly. He suspects that his own are the same.

Arthur carefully sips at his tea, places it back into the saucer sitting on a side table, and glances into the fire. No need to challenge Saito with the eagerness and heat of his gaze as the man walks into the room. He has been reliably informed, by Dominic no less, that his glare is vicious enough to do a lesser man in. He doesn’t want Saito to flee before he has the chance to say a word. He suppresses his smile.

He tears his eyes away from the flames when he hears the rustle of fabric nearby, a tiny noise that tells him Saito has settled into the wingback opposite Arthur and Dominic. Saito sits with his legs neatly crossed, cane leaned across them, and eyes shadowed. Arthur bites his tongue. They had agreed that Dominic would speak first.

“And what exactly was so urgent that you have _summoned_ us to London?”

Arthur has no doubt that Saito’s reasons are justified, but they have been traveling for weeks. He deserves some recrimination for his sudden and unexplained summons. Arthur picks his teacup up once more to hide his smile. He is curious as to Saito’s answer.

Saito’s gaze, which has been fixed on Dominic, wavers to Arthur for a moment before turning back to the older man. Arthur allows his smile to show, and keeps watching Saito. Saito reaches into his waistcoat with a single gloved hand.

And pulls out a Carrier. Arthur watches it closely, wondering what message _this_ Carrier might contain, for no two hold the same words.

Saito holds this ‘coin’ out, and Dominic plucks it delicately from his hand, reaching over to a side table and retrieving a small tray with a blank parchment spread on it, undoubtedly kept there just for this purpose. He taps the Carrier down, then squints and adjusts the tray so that he can read the writing. Arthur squints as well, but he can see nothing, as the words blur at the angle from which he is viewing them.

Saito leans forward and reaches out a hand to Arthur as Dominic reads. Arthur pulls his gaze away from the Carrier and its message, and notices something small grasped between Saito’s fingers. He reaches out to accept the paper Saito is offering him. He unfolds it, revealing an address – an intersection of streets that he does not recognize.

Arthur glances up. “What is this, exactly?” His voice carries all the annoyance of being summoned across the world and not knowing why. He is pleased that his growing worry about what this ‘ _matter of life and death_ ’ does not reveal itself in his tone.

“Ariadne’s location. She has been staying here in London, with me, for weeks. She spends her days there. I haven’t told her about this,” he nods his head at Dominic, “yet.” He sits back.

Arthur glances at Dominic, who is still reading, his face creased in concentration and perhaps something more worrying, and then back to Saito. The man is gathering the entire team, all those who had worked on the Inception. But for what?

Saito notices his confusion, though he doesn’t acknowledge it. He looks into the bright fire as he speaks. “ _Someone_ has found out about the Inception. And he is making…ah, demands.”

Arthur is swallowed by sudden fear. “What kind of demands is he making, exactly?”

“Nothing specific, I’m afraid. Nothing I can work with. He does seem to relish the prospect of revealing our secret, though. And his deadline for response approaches.”

Trying to calculate the ramifications, Arthur pauses before speaking. “How do the English view Dreaming? I know that Americans are suspicious of our occupation, and tolerate it unwillingly, but I have heard little about its status here.”

Saito is silent for a very long moment. The fire casts eerie shadows across his face, and Arthur grows more worried by the instant.

“It is anathema. The English will not talk of the sharing of dreams. They believe it to be a cursed art, I have heard. The very mention of Dreaming can get one arrested, in this town.” A tight smile crosses Saito’s face. “I cannot imagine that the consequences, should the good citizens of this country find out what we have done, will be gentle.”

Arthur remembers exactly what they did, all those months ago. Robert Fischer, lying prone upon a padded airship seat. The five of them gathered around him, needles and tubing unfurling. And Fischer’s mind when he woke, twisted but sane, and not the same at all. He looks over at Dominic, who has gone very pale. If the public finds out what they have done…

It will quite probably, as Saito has said, be the death of them.

\------

Arthur doesn’t wish to end up scarred, face smashed and jaw dislocated by the jolting and jumping of the hackney he hailed moments ago, and so he settles for reaching out with both hands and bracing himself against the frames of the slotted windows set into the doors on either side of him. He prays, absentmindedly, that the doors don’t give outwards.

It is likely that he has managed to hail the worst cabbie in all of London proper. Exceeding likely, as Arthur has never favored London, with its coal smog crowding the air and piles of shit crowding the ground and has, hence, avoided the place most strenuously. He has managed, in the past, to stick to the docks, taking ships in and out again just as fast as he possibly could. It is a black mark against Saito that he has induced Arthur to spend days, perhaps even weeks, in this miserable, overgrown town.

But, despite his misgivings, Arthur does manage to accustom himself to the switch and swing of his cab. He keeps his hands tightly braced on the window frames in case some rightfully depressed Londoner throws themselves in front of the cab and said vehicle is forced to veer, sending Arthur tumbling. He loosens his arms enough to lean forward and to the side, and he narrows his eyes to look out of the windows – mere slits in the wooden doors that provide enough light to belie any assumption that one is, in fact, dead and riding about in their own coffin.

The London streets rush by. Interfaces glitter in the sun. Arthur takes a moment to wonder at them. San Francisco – the place to which he returns whenever his jobs are finished and his sleep has calmed once more – hasn’t a single Interface. It is a fast-growing city, and is rapidly gaining all of the modern conveniences that great metropoli like New York and London can boast of. But, for all of that, it is still small and mean, eking out a living upon the harsh shores of an endless sea.

Zig-zagging networks of brass, pulled and spun until they are, in some places, as thin and fine as silk, do not cling to the sides of San Francisco’s building as they do here in London. Such webs climb the buildings here like hungry plants, but as Dominic had demonstrated just the night before, they serve a much less selfish purpose. These Interfaces are the same as those inscribed upon Carriers, grown bigger and wider and across the buildings themselves, and they allow Carriers to transfer messages from one building to another, and even across the countryside. Every building they crawl over can receive crystalline clear messages, and if a Carrier is advanced enough, it can hold a message even when large Interfaces no longer touch structures.

Arthur settles back, and the flashing sunlight off the Interfaces vanishes, now visible only on the opposite door of the hackney. He keeps his arms braced, but lets himself think.

He has read the letter. After Dominic had finished last night, Arthur took the Carrier and parchment from him, and read the message himself. Even through a Carrier, the message appeared to have been incised into the parchment rather than written with script – the writer violent in his intensity. And aside from requesting a meeting with Saito – on the first day of next month, almost two weeks away now – the writer who signed only with a large, black **X** , requested absolutely nothing.

And that is strange. As soon as Dominic had finished reading and had handed the message to Arthur, he had joined Saito at the fireplace, and two of them had discussed something – likely this very situation – in whispers. Arthur wonders what they are planning.

The cab begins to slow. Arthur leans quickly forward and glances out the window, noting that the crowds have grown. Anonymous heads of dark hair crowd the streets, faceless and emotionless. They jostle each other, men’s gloved hands holding top hats firm upon their heads, women’s gloved hands clutching tight at their men’s elbows.

Arthur leans back and then, after an instant’s thought, hefts his walking stick to rap once, twice upon the roof of the carriage. With a sharp clack the screen in the back slides open and the driver leans down to peer inside. Arthur turns enough to catch a glimpse of the man and cries loudly, to be heard above the crowd, “Stop here!”

Within a moment, the horses slow to a stop. Arthur reaches into his waistcoat, pulls out a few heavy coins which he does not bother to count, Victoria’s swollen face glinting for an instant, and hands them up through the portal the driver had looked through just a minute ago. They are snatched from his gloved palm with a frightening voracity, and Arthur decides that he will dawdle no longer, and simply leave. He does not require change. He pushes the hackney door open.

Carefully, Arthur steps down the carriage steps onto the street, settles his bowler onto his head and holds it there, and begins pushing through the crowds. From what little he knows of London, the address given to him by Saito is not far away, really. He can walk.

Arthur quickly finds that using his elbows to force through the crowd is only slightly effective, as anyone whom he pushes away quickly surges back, seemingly in retaliation, to crush him up against someone else. But he finds also that if he catches another’s eyes, and conjures the determination he uses when shooting down Projections, the other person will soon back away, leaving him room to maneuver. And so, by a combination of swift jabs, quick steps, and deadly glares, Arthur makes his way down the streets of London.

The crowd thins somewhat as Arthur heads towards the address, obviously located in some less-favored part of the city, and so he is able to remove his hand from his hat by the time he reaches his destination and is stopped by a pair of tall, wrought-iron gates. Arthur stares past the gates and at the moldering, unimaginably long manse that sits there, in the midst of a sickly green lawn. The place is abandoned, uninhabited, and quite forsaken. London’s buildings have grown right up to the edge of its property, some even leaning on and over the iron fence that rings it. It is a dead place. Slowly, Arthur looks up to the top of the gates at the words worked in metal, rusted and perched upon the gate for all to read.

 _Bethlem Royal Hospital_

Even Arthur has heard about this hospital, but he has heard about it under a different name - _Bedlam Asylum_. Saito has sent him _here_? Swiftly and surreptitiously, Arthur checks the address, but he is, indeed, in the correct place.

Pushing down his misgivings, Arthur shoves at the gates and they creak open, allowing him just enough space to squeeze through. Bedlam stands tall before him, rising almost unimaginably high, its wings stretching for hundreds of feet to either side. And Ariadne is somewhere inside.

As Arthur wanders the halls of the old building, he looks into the many cells. Each has a mere three walls – for the fourth is only bars, all along the halls. Arthur has heard tales of Londoners paying to watch the lunatics cavort, but only now can he credit them.

He moves on, but hears nothing. It seems as if he is the only person here. As he walks into the high-ceilinged atrium, however, and looks up at the cupola several stories above, a parchment flutters down to him. It drifts to the floor near his feet, and Arthur reaches down to pick it up. The already yellowed parchment contains a rather disturbing sketch of the statue of Mania that sits just above Bedlam’s gates. The statue’s tortured expression is particularly cleanly rendered, leaving an unsettled feeling in Arthur as he gazes at it.

“Oh!”

Arthur looks quickly up, and sees a small head with tumbling brown hair peering down at him from the edge of the cupola. A distant shout reaches him.

“I’ll be right down!”

As he has no idea how to get there anyway, Arthur remains where he is, settling with his hands clasped behind his back and the parchment loosely dangling from his fingertips. He doesn’t want to look at it. He’ll return the drawing to Ariadne when she comes down.

And so she does, eventually, several parchments loosely bundled into a leather folder under her arm, ink spotting the tips of her fingers. Arthur smiles as she clatters down the last few steps and reaches out to hand her her drawing. She glances at it briefly, shoves it into her folder, drops said folder onto the ground, and reaches out to Arthur.

“Arthur. I’m so glad you’ve come.”

He hesitates, then steps forward to embrace the girl, feeling her slim curves keenly through the thin fabric of her dress.

“You and Cobb took so long. I didn’t think you’d ever come.”

Arthur pulls back and smiles at the girl. She flashes him a wide grin before stooping to pick up her things. They begin to walk out of the Asylum, side by side.

“You knew, then?”

“Yes. Saito may believe that he can keep things from me – I do not know why, honestly – but he cannot. I found the Carrier in his desk the day after he received it. I knew when he sent out a Carrier himself that he would be contacting you. Have you met with Eames, yet?”

Arthur frowns at the thought of Eames. He would much rather that the man remained uninvolved. There is something very untrustworthy about him, Arthur reflects. Perhaps…but no, not even Eames would have betrayed their actions. He was not Arthur’s favorite person, not even close, but Arthur acknowledged that he was not _that_ depraved.

“No, I haven’t met with him. I’m not sure he’s needed, really. I realize that the English regard dream sharing as _anathema_ , but surely this is something that the four of us can take care of, on our own.”

“Did Saito tell you that?”

“Tell me what?”

“That Dreaming is anathema here.”

“Yes, he did.”

“The master of understatement, that man is.” When he glances over, Arthur sees a wry smile on Ariadne’s face. “I do believe he feared frightening you away, if he had stated the bald truth of it,” she continues.

“And what is that, exactly?”

Ariadne pauses, apparently thinking, before venturing to speak. When she does, her cadence is measured, as if recounting an oft learned lesson. “In late 1861, it was discovered that the Prince of Wales had committed adultery. The Prince Consort, Albert, traveled to Cambridge to confront his son. When he arrived, though, the Prince of Wales was ready for him. He had hired the best Dreamers in the field to send Prince Albert deep under, and steal his secrets. Many have theorized that he planned to blackmail his father into allowing the affair to continue. No one knows. But Prince Albert was already ill, and the Dreaming only worsened it. He died four days later having never fully woken up.”

Chilled by the tale, and by professional disgust, Arthur does not interrupt.

“The Queen was devastated by her husband’s death, especially when she was told that it had been caused by an occult art, and one that she had been suspicious of for some time. Though she now rules from seclusion, Victoria has made sure that Dreaming and its Dreamers are driven from the country. Anyone suspected and found guilty of the crime of Dreaming faces the same penalties as High Treason – that they be hanged by the neck until dead, and once so, that their bodies be disemboweled, drawn and quartered, and decapitated. She began with her son, and made an example of him.”

Her own son. Arthur cannot imagine the cruelty that it must require to condemn your own son to a fate so heinous.

“Fourteen people have been executed in this way for Dreaming. And I didn’t know any of them – they were not really Dreamers. Suspicion and fear killed them.”

Mentally, Arthur curses Saito. His understatement of the climate here could have gotten Arthur killed, had he spoken the wrong word. He bites his tongue to prevent himself from saying anything unmannerly.

Ariadne turns to look at him before pulling at the rusted gates and easing herself through. “So yes, I suspect that we will need Eames.”

Arthur steps after her, and they are on the street. He is grateful for her presence, so pleasant and practical, after all the secrets and scheming that seem to have consumed his life. He falls behind and watches her walk – the practical linen of her tea dress moving with her hips as its hem skips over the rough stones and dances behind her.

\------

Eames stares up at him, necktie loose and ragged, his jacket dirtied at the hems, as Arthur enters the parlor. His hair is brushed back, away from his face, but a strand falls into his eyes. Eames doesn’t seem to notice the failure of his toilette, and Arthur’s hand itches with the desire to brush the damn thing away.

Arthur settles into a wingback near the fire. He refuses to squeeze onto the settee next to Eames, no matter that the chair he is now sitting in should be reserved for the lord of the house – in this case, Saito. He is willing to disregard manners this once. Lamentably, it seems as if Eames is rubbing off on him, even with such scant association.

He is keenly aware of Eames’ gaze upon him as he settles down into his seat. He doesn’t know why the man should stare so – they have only met once or twice before, and only then when they were working on the Inception together. Aside from Eames’ complete lack of taste in fashion and his doubly offensive lack of social manners, Arthur knows nothing of the man.

“So, Arthur…” Eames drawls, drawing out the syllables of Arthur’s name in a most irritating way. Arthur ignores him, and looks into the fireplace. The fire crackles loudly. Arthur has always found that looking into fire is a good way of ignoring someone. They simply assume that you are mesmerized.

But Eames won’t take no (or silence, the man cannot bear that, Arthur finds) for an answer, apparently. Arthur listens to him shift in his seat, the settee creaking beneath him, and looks up, his glare haughty. Eames is leaning forward, one elbow perched on the arm of the settee, the tips of his fingers teasing his bottom lip. Arthur freezes, but manages to hold his gaze.

The stairs groan, announcing Saito and Dominic. Arthur turns around quickly and Eames shifts back, turning to look calmly at Saito. Arthur briefly shoots him the most vicious look he can muster before looking at Saito as well, who is finally coming downstairs. Dominic is walking next to him, conversing quietly.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” says Dominic, smiling slightly, as he looks at Eames.

Eames smiles back at him, a dark amusement lurking in his gaze. “I was only too happy, really. I believe that I must thank you.”

Dominic sends Eames a curious glance. It is, indeed, an odd response. Eames glances at Arthur, so quickly as to be almost unnoticeable. Arthur would not have seen it had he not been watching that man.

Saito’s gaze is amused, as if he can see the tension vibrating between them. But he does not waste time on questions.

“Have you a plan?”

Across the room, on an armchair, Ariadne shifts, invisible except for the hem of her skirts in the shadows, and speaks. “What can we do, really? This man has us in quite a rough spot, I believe. And I can’t see how we can stop him.”

“I would like to know how this fellow found out about the Inception in the first place,” Arthur begins, but Eames speaks over him halfway through.

“It doesn’t matter how he knows, really,” he says, leaning against the settee back. “He knows about it, and we cannot stop him from speaking, as he has made no demands. We can do nothing about this man or his motivations, and he knows it, I’ll wager. He is enjoying making us squirm and worry. We shouldn’t worry about why, then, for we can do nothing about that. We should only worry about what we can do – silencing him somehow. _That_ is the problem.” He looks down at his fingernails, then up again, a wicked and charismatic smile bursting onto his face. “Now what are we going to do about it? I, for one, am not willing to be executed for some idiot’s prejudice.”

Arthur wants to turn to him and ask, what exactly is it that he is so fond of in this country – though this was not perhaps a question that needed to be asked, as Arthur could see quite clearly in the meanness of Eames’ clothes and posture what the man and London share.

“It may be possible, perhaps, to silence this man.” Dominic’s voice is quiet but firm, and everyone turns to look at him. “If we can find him and enter his mind, we may be able to steal his secrets. Permanently.”

Saito gestures towards the settee. Eames shifts to the side and Dominic settles next to him.

“What does that mean?” asks Saito.

“I believe that, if a person is pushed – if they are frightened, or angered, or stressed – that person will subconsciously seek to protect themselves by placing all of their secrets into one place. A place which seems, to them, absolutely secure. If we can push this man far enough, that he hides his secrets deep in his soul, then we can find those secrets and steal them. Right from his mind.”

Ariadne walks over to them, and leans forward to look at Dominic closely. “You wants us to terrify the man, _and_ to perform an extraction. We could break his mind. Cobb, have you ever done this sort of thing before? Ripping an idea from the fabric of his thoughts… it could destroy him.”

“I have not done this. But I am also well aware of how deeply secrets can be buried when the holder is pressured. Before this man can act we must penetrate his mind, and it will require much preparation. We need to begin work now, if we even hope to accomplish something like this.”

Arthur wants to speak up, offer moral objections to the plan. Ariadne is right – it is too dangerous. But it also seems to be their only hope. Even if the man’s mind is broken in the process, Arthur cannot bring himself to feel guilty. He is, after all, threatening them.

“It does seem a…reasonable plan. And the only one that we have,” Saito opines from the center of their group. “But how will we find this man?”

Eames’ mouth curls in a completely inappropriate smirk. “Oh, don’t worry. That will be no problem, for me. “

\------

It takes Eames just four days.

Arthur is dressing on this morning, paying special attention to his toilette. He slips the wide silk of his four-in-hand round the narrow the last time before passing the wide up and behind, and then down through the loop, tightening the knot until it lays heavy and soft across his collarbones - and decides that associating with Saito, a Far Eastern merchant, has it definite advantages. The silk of the tie is supple and decadent under his fingertips. He wonders if anyone will recognize the quality of what he is wearing from a glance.

The hollow knocks of horse-hooves sound outside, and Arthur turns from the wide mirror he has been gazing into to look out the window. A plain, and indeed much-worn hackney is slowing and drawing up to the door just below Arthur’s window. Arthur watches as a figure in a dark suit, with a stiff top hat, steps out of the carriage, reached up to give the driver payment, and stepped up to the doorway. Arthur does not hear a doorbell ring, but he hears steps in the downstairs hall. Saito. He steps back from the window, slips on his tailcoat, and moves out the door and down the stairs.

Saito is just lifting his top hat off his head as he turns to see Arthur, pausing halfway down the steps. His hand flicks upward and on instinct Arthur reaches out and catches the small object that Saito has tossed. He finishes hanging his hat and moves down the hall, saying,

“Get your things,” as he moves.

Arthur swiftly lifts the small folded parchment he just caught and unfolds it. He swings around, finds a blank spot on the wall beside him, and slams the Carrier against it. It’s vibration against his fingers is amplified by the pounding of his heart. The message appears against the wall, difficult to read over the dark wood paneling, but still legible.

  
_16 Broad Street  
\- Eames_   


Arthur smiles, wickedly. Finally. He has been going crazy, sitting here and waiting for news. Eames has found the blackmailer. Arthur pockets the coin (no need to let a lucky spy find the record of their destination), and heads back up the stairs two and three at a time. He needs the PASIV, and the somnacin. They are about to Dream.

He feels a rush of gratitude for Eames, but pushes it away in his haste.

\------

The blackmailer is a normal man, small and stout, with a heavy stomach and dirtied clothes. Not wealthy, and not cultured either. One of the undeserving poor, most likely. He stares at Arthur as he steps up into the tiny room. Fear starts to creep into his dirty little face.

Arthur turns to look at Eames, lounging lazily across the room. “And you are sure that this is the man?” He seems so…banal.

Eames does not respond, so Arthur looks at the man. He is looking straight back at Arthur, and is wringing his hands against his chest.

“Of course this is the man. Don’t tell me you doubted my _skills_?” Eames smirks at Arthur before turning his gaze to the man, dark and shadowed.

“My, ah, good sirs, I don’t…I cannot fathom…why are you looking for _me_?” He tries to smile, but this only makes his face appear more rattish and mean.

Arthur turns to Eames. “This man doesn’t even know what we are talking about. Honestly, Ea-“ He stops himself. It would not be prudent to use names.

“Oh, he knows. Of that I am sure.”

Eames shifts to look behind Arthur, who turns to look. Dominic and Saito walk through the door, with Ariadne close behind them. As she walks, she pulls a light shawl from around her neck and folds it over her arm. She smiles prettily at Arthur, nods to Eames, and turns a suddenly dark gaze to the man standing in the center of the room.

“This is the man?” Saito asks, no trace of doubt in his tone, only anticipation.

“Yes.”

“I do not believe that it can be him. Dom-- look–“

“I am. Look at his eyes.”

So, Arthur does. He watches the man’s eyes flick nervously back and forth between all members of the team. But now, he also notices something else. The man’s eyes do not appear frightened. They are calm, his eyebrows relaxed. Arthur’s sympathy for the man dies. There is something off about him – something not right at all.

“Alright, fine. Let us begin.” Arthur settles his heavy bag down. The wood of the floorboards groans.

Quickly Arthur crouches, unsnaps the top of the bag and allows the thick fabric of it to fall down to the sides, exposing a bright and finely wrought mechanism. There is a single thick cylinder standing upright in the center. Five thick tubes travel from the top of the cylinder, fastened down by a large washer with irregular, sharpened edges. The tubes drop down, wrapping tightly around the center cylinder, though not tightly enough to restrict the flow of liquid, before twisting back away from this cylinder at its base and connecting to the bottoms of five smaller cylinders. Each of these containers is metal at both top and bottom, and glass on the sides. Within, there is an empty space, with a thick rubber plunger at the top. When activated, the plunger will slowly drop, feeding the dream drug down the secondary tubes that leave the bottom of the small cylinder, and are tipped with shining silver needles.

Arthur unwinds these secondary tubes now, checking to be sure that the needles are clean and that no detritus is clinging to them from transport. There is a small container in the bottom of the bag, which Arthur lifts out as well. It contains a clear fluid that looks much like water. Somnacin, that will send them all into a deep, and shared, sleep. Arthur hesitates, looking at the container, and then stands. He turns to Dominic.

“I can measure out the doses, but I fear that what you are proposing is quite impossible using this substance. It will not hold him, or even any of us, under far enough.” It is a shame that Yusuf cannot be here to assist, but he is at his home in Mombasa, and too far from reach. There was not enough time to send for him – airships do not fly into the Dark Continent. Arthur will simply have to make to.

Dominic opens his mouth, then closes it. Eames breaks in.

“I have taken care of _that_ , as well. If you will all just wait a few more moments.” He looks up from gazing at a large pocket watch and sends what appears to be a glare at Arthur. Arthur purses his lips and clenches his hand into a fist around the somnacin.

But just then, the door creaks, and opens. A thin man wearing a tailcoat and white waistcoat enters. The door closes with a bang behind him. Eames steps forward and nods in greeting. “Dr Snow.”

“Good morning, Mr Eames.”

“Were you able to work with what I asked of you?”

The man gives Eames an unfathomable look and reaches into his own canvas bag, pulling out a large glass vial filled with clear fluid.

“Yes.” The man’s voice is quiet, but Arthur can detect assurance in it, as if is confident of what he is doing beyond all doubt. The man turns to towards Arthur, Dominic, and Saito. Ariadne watches their mark.

The chemist – for that must be what Mr Snow is, with his jar of clear fluid – looks each of them in the eyes before speaking. “Mr Eames here asked me to mix a formula for your use. This drug here,” he holds up the glass beaker, “will serve to hold each of you in sleep and allow you to share dreams. It is a strong enough anesthetic that it will hold you under, even if, within your dream, you die. This will allow you to accomplish your purpose, as I understand it. Is this the machine?”

Arthur feels a flash of anger, that Eames risked everything and told this man, a total stranger, about what they are about to attempt. But the man is cool and professional, showing no prejudice whatsoever at the thought of what they are about to do. Arthur nods at his question and pushes back his reservations, and Snow moves to the PASIV.

Quickly, as if he has done this before, Snow, opens the Device and pours in the drug. Arthur looks up, at Eames. Where did you find this man? Arthur thinks. But he does not speak. Why should he, when the man is right here, and obviously competent? Eames lifts an eyebrow, staring back at him.

“Well, shall we begin, then?” Dominic asks, stepping forward. He shrugs off his tailcoat and lets it fall to the floor. He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves and begins rolling them up. Behind him, Saito grabs a rough-hewn chair from the corner, tests its strength, and then shoves it under the door handle. It is unlikely to provide much of a barrier, but any more might arouse suspicion.

Ariadne smiles tightly at Arthur, and he can see the nervousness in her eyes. She shrugs her shoulder and slips off her overcoat, revealing a tailored chiffon tea dress. It clings to her as she walks to the side of the room, hips small and delicate, and lays the coat out upon a dirt bed, neatly. Arthur’s eyes follow the curve of her spine as she straightens.

He looks away. Eames is watching him, and when Arthur’s gaze catches his he smiles, a vicious baring of the teeth. Arthur looks down to Snow and sees that the man is nearly finished with his preparations – he is unwinding the translucent tubes and straightening them, squinting to observe the fluid’s flow.

The blackmailer in the corner is moving now, sneaking around the edges of the room as the team readies itself, making for the door. Arthur catches Eames’ eye, and nods.

They move at once, and Arthur reaches the man first. He grabs the man’s arm and pulls. The man turns, eyes wide and frightened, and he shouts, “No!” but then Eames is behind him, snaking an arm around his throat and silencing him. He flails. Arthur reaches over Eames’ arm, which is only holding the man back, and slips a single, thin hand around the man’s throat. He squeezes.

The man’s eyes find Arthur’s, and he wheezes, gasping for breath. His gaze is subsumed by panic, terrified and animalistic. Arthur cannot bring himself to feel sympathy for the man – not after he has threatened to destroy them all in the most horrible of ways. He ignores the man’s flying arms and legs – his attempts to beat Arthur back and away. Soon, his struggles begin to weaken. Arthur’s gaze meets Eames’, and Arthur suddenly notices what an unfathomable grey his eyes are, and how delicate the lashes that surround them. Eames removes his arm, allowing Arthur better access and drawing his attention back to the man, and moves, grabbing the man’s arms and pulling them behind him. The man’s eyes begin to flutter, and he sags. Arthur removes his hand.

He cannot choke the man unconscious – an unconscious man cannot dream like one who merely sleeps. So he merely holds the man until he is on the verge of unconsciousness, and lets him go. Eames, who has his arms, lifts. The man grunts, beginning to come round to consciousness, though he is still weak. Arthur stoops and grasps his legs, and together they drag the man over to the PASIV.

They lay him down. The man moves, pushing against the floor, but Arthur has his legs and Eames his shoulders, so he goes nowhere. Arthur looks to Snow, but he is already moving. He uncoils a single tube, yanks the man’s sleeve upwards, and shoves the needle into the veins of his wrist. He uses a linen strip to secure the needle. He taps the liquid-filled cylinder and the man begins to subside, his eyes slipping closed as his mind falls into Dreams.

Arthur slowly lets go of the man. He is breathing fast, provoked by the excitement of the moment. He looks up, at Eames, and smiles.

Dominic and Saito are ready to dream, having removed their coats and laid down upon the dirty floor. Arthur swallows at the thought of lying on it, and then sees Saito’s glance, amused as if he knows exactly what Arthur is thinking. Snow is uncoiling the other tubes and handing one off to Dominic, and then Saito. Ariadne holds out a delicate hand, and clasps her needle tight therein. She lies back upon the hard floor, her dress pooling underneath her, and slides the glittering needle into her arm. Her eyes close.

Arthur receives his own needle and then, after a moment’s thought, takes off his tailcoat. It will not be an easy thing to Dream in, he fears. He folds it up and shoves it under his head, then lies gingerly back. Carefully rolling back his sleeve, he slips the heavy needle into his skin. A piquant pain shoots all the way up his arm, but fades as his eyes close, and darkness sweeps over him.

\------

“This is wrong.”

Ariadne is staring up at Bedlam Asylum, her chiffon tea dress – the same that she wore when awake – trailing behind her like a shroud. Before her, Bedlam stretches out to either side. Projections mill around them and the entrance to the estate, pushing up against the iron gates and peering thorough the bars, across the lawns. They are chatting in groups and hardly notice the team. The projections all gather around the gate to the Asylum. After a few moments, another projection approaches the gate from the inside and pulls them open. The gathered projections laugh and cheer, and begin to walk slowly, one by one, through the gates and into Bedlam. Arthur wonders idly if the lunatics are putting on a play.

“We’re too _early_.”

Arthur glances over at Ariadne. She is biting her lips, clutching her shawl so tight around her that her shoulder blades carve sharp lines in the back.

“How can that be? Too early?” Dominic asks, looking somewhat concerned. The feeling is most likely for Ariadne herself, and not her statement. She appears to be driving herself into a frenzy, just standing there.

She whirls on them presenting Arthur with a startling portrait of her wide, dark eyes. “This is the eighteenth century!”

Arthur blinks in surprise. That is wrong. They live in the nineteenth century. With any luck, their Dreams should play out in this century as well. The projections around them turn slightly more aggressive, pushing past them to get through the gates with a casual violence. The crowd threatens to pull the team apart, and until they know what has gone wrong, they cannot afford it. Dominic seizes Ariadne’s arm and pulls her in close. She holds tight to him as if he is keeping her alive. Her eyes dart from Eames, to Arthur, to Saito. Arthur jerks his head to the right, towards the nearest fence.

He pushes in that direction, and feels a hand on his elbow. He glances back, recognizes Eames, and lets the gesture go. He is willing to put up with whatever it takes to get them safely out of the way of the projections. Once they are there, pushed up against the fence, Arthur pulls his elbow from Eames’ grasp with a sour look, and turns to Ariadne. She is looking a bit calmer now, and fairly bursting with an explanation.

“And what is so terrible about the eighteenth century?” prompts Arthur gently. He is gauging the crowd, watching its flow with half of his attention. No matter how “off” this dream may be, Arthur is determined to find a way out. He refuses to give in.

Ariadne steps in close, and begins to speak in a low voice.

“This is Bedlam, as you all know. It may be a deserted building now, when we are alive, but in the eighteenth century, it is very active…” she trails off and glances back, then leans in and begin speaking quickly, feverishly. “I designed the dream to be a deserted Asylum – somewhere frightening and yet full of places for the blackmailer to hide his secrets. It was supposed to be _empty_. But we’re too early, and that Dream seems to have conformed itself to history.”

Arthur reaches under his tailcoat, to his waist, where a pistol is holstered. He shifts it, pulling it free of the leather and holding it low in front of him. He examines the gun and nods, pleased with what he sees. A Lancaster Compressor, a smaller and rarer version of the Lancaster Rifle, a kind of firearm that fires tightly packed shards of metal, instead of traditional bullets. When used, the projectiles have a tendency to spread out in the air and spin rapidly, greatly damaging and taking serrated chunks out of anything within a certain radius of the muzzle. A modern gun, and one that Arthur favors. He is pleased that the Dream has provided what he needs. He puts the Lancaster away and turns his attention back to the tense conversation.

Dominic glares at Ariadne. “I have told you not to use reality when shaping Dreams. These sort of Dreams slip easily from the architect’s grasp. All of us – all of what we know of Bedlam Asylum, is now contributing to shaping the Dream – let alone the Dreamer’s own beliefs and fear.”

“I know that,” Ariadne snaps. “But I had very little time in which to construct this Dream, and this was the absolutely most complex that I could come up with on the moment’s notice. With any luck, you all will be able to finish this in a single level. I have been able to design no others.” She pulls back, and Saito reaches out to pull her back into the circle. Arthur can feel Dominic’s anger, but before he can begin yelling and expose them further to the projections’ scrutiny, Saito speaks.

“I realize that the pressure has been enormous, and I apologize to all of you. We will have to do our absolute best here, and destroy him in this level. “

“Otherwise we’ll be thrown into cages, ourselves,” Eames says quietly, watching the projections walk past. He looks back, and raises his eyebrows at the team’s inquiring looks. Arthur does not take his eyes off the crowd around them; he knows what Eames is going to say.

“Ah, you don’t know. In the eighteenth century, Londoners paid to come and watch the lunatics cavort. Exactly as the projections are doing now.”

Arthur glances over, and can see for the first time that the projections are indeed paying as they pass through Bedlam’s gates, and that many seem to be wearing fancy dress, as if this is a special occasion. He purses his lips in disapproval.

“Oh, don’t be so fastidious, Arthur. At least we know that the secret will be inside, in Bedlam’s halls. No other place is simultaneously so frightening and safe. This will be _fun_.”

Arthur pushes off the fence, away from Eames, and heads toward the grand gates, slipping into line with the waiting projections. He reaches into his trouser pocket and, fortunately, finds several heavy coins. He glances back; Dominic, Saito, Eames, and Ariadne slip into line behind him.

The projections move quickly, and within moments they are at the front of the line, standing at the gates. Arthur reaches back into his pockets and pulls out a slim gold coin. He does not concentrate on the coin’s details, but lets the Dream itself shape them.

At the gate, a tall projection stands. His hair is curled and dark, and when he turns it bounces. He smiles broadly at Arthur, white teeth showing, and Arthur nods politely back, like all the other projections have.

“Enjoy yourself,” the projection says, and Arthur walks quickly through the gates, playing eager to see what is beyond. Behind him, the projection repeats his greeting to each entrant. Arthur means, at first, to slow his walk and allow for the rest of the team to catch up to him, but he sees the man, their blackmailer, standing on the lawn.

He is staring up at Bedlam as if he has never seen the place before. His clothes and appearance are as sad and rattish as before, in reality. A projection moves forward to greet the blackmailer, and the man looks at it, smiling and walking with the projection towards the Asylum. Arthur follows them at a distance.

The heels of his dress shoes click against the stone of Bedlam’s steps. Inside, the Asylum is crowded. For a moment Arthur fears that he has lost the blackmailer and his projection in the sea of chattering, anonymous faces. But luckily, the projection is tall, and strangely familiar to Arthur though he cannot name the connection, and Arthur spots him within a moment.

There is a soft touch on the back of Arthur’s arm and he turns, expecting Ariadne’s slim form and dark eyes. But it is Eames, his darkened grey eyes hovering close to Arthur’s own. A dull shock runs through Arthur and he flushes hotly; he steps back and into a projection. He turns to apologize, but by the time he looks back, the intensity has gone from Eames’ eyes, and he is scanning the crowd.

“Oh very good. You’ve found him after all.”

Arthur bridles at the condescension in Eames’ tone, but decides that the man is not worth a reply – especially as that reply would take an indubitably violent form and draw attention to them. Arthur turns, spots the projection and the _rat_ , and pushes forward after them. He is sure Eames is following, though he can only feel it.

In the crowd, he spots Ariadne’s dark curls; she is not wearing a hat, unlike many of the female projections. Keeping an eye on the tall projection, he heads towards her. When he reaches her, he tugs upon her sleeve and she whirls. He points quickly to the tall projection, his head bobbing not far from them in the crowd. Arthur spots Dominic and Saito nearby, trailing behind Ariadne. He nods to them, and they quicken their pace to catch up. Eames shifts in his peripheral vision. They are all together.

Eames moves first, walking off through the crowd, using his elbows to clear a path through the projections. Arthur quickly follows, unwilling to lose him. He catches sight of Dominic and Saito doing the same, across the room. Without thinking, Arthur grasps Ariadne’s wrist and pulls her along behind him.

The projections around them murmur but do not attack or make any obvious moves. Arthur takes this as a blessing and keeps moving. He wants to catch up to Eames, walk past him and confront the blackmailer, but he knows that this would be foolish. He settles for following.

Eames slows down and then stops, casually turning to lean against one of the Asylum’s walls. Next to him is an empty cell comprised of three stone walls and an iron enclosure on the cell wall facing them. An iron door hangs open. At the next cell, perhaps ten feet away, stand the blackmailer and projection, staring at whatever lies inside. Arthur can hear shouting and growls.

Suddenly, Arthur experiences an uncomfortable jolt as he realizes that the projection that has been guiding the blackmailer is the same as the gatekeeper. The projection turns, and Arthur notices his watery, light eyes. He smiles at Arthur, who feels a chill. The projection should not recognize him. Ariadne was right – something has gone wrong.

Arthur keeps walking, pulling Ariadne next to him. They stop in front of the empty cell, facing it. They pretend to look inside, but really watch the blackmailer from the edges of their vision. Arthur keeps an eye on the projection as well, his gaze flicking between the two. Dominic and Saito have joined the crowd of projections waiting to see inside the next cell. They all pretend innocence.

As Arthur watches the man and inspects the cell simultaneously (dirty little hole that it is, and Arthur wonders exactly whether Ariadne’s imagination dreamt this bit up or if it was Eames’s influence, as Arthur suspects), he notices that the blackmailer and projection seem to be conversing. As the other projections lean and gambol for a chance to see inside the cell, those two talk, and pay very little attention to the poor occupants of the cell at all.

Then, as Arthur glances over at them, the blackmailer looks up. His gaze finds Arthur, and their eyes meet. The man frowns, and a hand drifts up towards his throat. Around them, the projections begin to go silent. Ariadne’s hand grasps Arthur’s arm in a stranglehold. The blackmailer is saying something, but Arthur cannot read his lips. Next to him, the projection’s eyes narrow and his head falls back. Arthur watches the line of his throat as it tightens and realizes that the projection is laughing, throaty and cold all at once.

Around them, the other projections begin to move, and Arthur dives to the side, pulling Ariadne with him through the cell’s open door. Damn it all, but he has been recognized.

And so has the rest of the team. Arthur turns in time to catch Eames slamming a projection’s head against the wall before kicking another back and stumbling through the cell door as well. Dominic and Saito are fighting back projections nearby. Saito is reaching for, but cannot quite grasp hold of, his pistol. Arthur draws his Lancaster and fires off a shot. The compressed metal whines through the air and unfolds. A projection falls bloodily, and the rest flinch.

This is enough for Dominic and Saito to pull themselves free. Eames goes to the cell door, and as they stumble through he pulls it closed. The lock slams shut, sounding ominous even for such an outdated building. Arthur sighs and backs up. The projections press themselves up against the bars of the cell wall, the women in fancy dress and the men tidy, their eyes soulless and hungry. Despite his experience, it gives Arthur chills. He looks to the side, where the blackmailer had been standing, but either he cannot see him, or the man has gone. The projection has disappeared as well, and for some reason that worries Arthur more.

But it does not matter now. They have failed.

“No,” Ariadne is whispering. “If only…” She trails off but the team turns to her, so she steps closer and continues quietly.

“I hid a PASIV in one of the cells, just in case we needed to go down one more level.”

Dominic raises an eyebrow at her, so she rushes onward. “I know, the second level is unformed. But I hadn’t much time, and _anything_ could have happened, so I did try to prepare.”

“A PASIV in another cell isn’t going to be terribly useful, Ariadne,” Eames says, staring out at the attentive projections, their eyes twitching with every shift of the team. Arthur glances out at them as well, and regrets it.

“We can wait it out,” Saito volunteers, “and try again.”

“No, that would be of no use – he would be prepared next time and even now there is no guarantee—“

Arthur mind is thinking, clicking through the possibilities, when something occurs to him.

“Ariadne,” he asks, “would you have, by any chance, created each of the cells from an identical floor plan?”

The skin between her eyes creases with confusion. “Yes, it did seem to be the most efficient way. I don’t see what—“

“In a Dream,” says Arthur, beginning to smile, “physics is irrelevant. If you have built every single cell off the same plan, and if every cell is, in essence, identical, then every cell _is the same cell_.”

Her eyes light up and her mouth rounds out into an O.

“What?” Eames snaps.

“It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. Everyone, close your eyes.”

Triumphant, Arthur glances at Eames before closing his eyes. And when he opens them a moment later, a PASIV sits, tucked into a dark corner of the cell. Arthur rushes forward and pulls it, glittering, into the light. It screeches against the stone floor, and a murmur runs through the waiting projections. He begins to uncoil the tubing.

Ariadne shakes her head at Arthur and reaches for the PASIV. “I will stay. And make sure that you all wake.”

There is no time to argue, and so Arthur lets her handle the machine. He is not pleased the she will be staying, but there is little choice. She is the least prepared to fight her way through lower levels. She reaches out and hands them the needles, smiles a small smile at them all. Then, Dominic, Saito, Arthur, and Eames settle down onto the dirty floor, and without looking at the eager projections, slip the needles into their arms, and spiral down into a deeper Dream.

\-------

London is almost normal, now. The buildings rise five stories above them, and no more. They lean upon each other, darkly interlocked and foreboding. This is the London that has defined an age of claustrophobia and fear. Arthur cannot wait to be free of this dream, and done with this horrid task.

But suddenly, Arthur sees that not everything is as it should be, in this London of dreams. The sparkling brass Interfaces that Arthur had grown used to seeing in London, that clung to the corners and faces of buildings like tree-rot, are not here. Ariadne, has built, it seems, an older, and louder London. Projections stand on the streets chatting, smiling at each and glancing only briefly at the group that consists of Arthur, Eames, Dominic, and Saito, as they walk by.

All seems well here.

“Do you think that he’s been pushed far enough?” asks Arthur to the air. Dominic answers.

“Judging by madness of the last level, I would say so. We should be able to find it here, but be ready, just in case.” They keep the conversation vague to avoid detection. Dominic is right. The blackmailer’s secret must be here; they cannot afford to descend another level. Arthur pushes the placket of his coat aside and feels, at his hip, a pistol. He loosens it in its holster, testing the weight gently. Fully loaded once more. Perfect.

Arthur glances back and sees Eames doing the same, though he wears no coat, hat, or even waistcoat. The wide sleeves of his yellowed shirt billow slightly as he settles the firearm back into its holster. His hair has come loose, and falls in thick strands around his face. His pupils have been swallowed by his grey irises in this gloaming light, giving him a feral look.

Arthur turns away, and sees Dominic nod at the buildings. Saito lets his cane down from where it has been perched in his elbow and begins to tap the ground with it, soft and rhythmic. Counting. He glances at a pocket watch before nodding back to Dominic. He keeps tapping, just loud enough for each of them to hear as they walk.

Eames pulls away from the group, walking over to the shop windows and allowing the wide sleeve of his shirt to cover his pistol. He gazes into each of the shop windows, smiling at projections as he walks and playing the interested customer. Arthur purses his lips in disapproval, then walks to the other side of the street to do the same. They are both looking for peculiarities – things that are just out of the norm and suggest that the man (Arthur does not know his name – after this, how can he not know that man’s name, at least) is hiding his secrets within. Arthur at least has the courtesy to take his hat off and nod to the female projections passing him, though his right hand never strays more than a few inches from his gun, and his eyes constantly move.

 _tap, tap, tap_ , goes Saito’s cane.

Arthur looks, closely, but sees nothing. He spares a few glances for Eames; it does not appear that he has found anything, either. As he turns his head, a glint of sudden light catches his eye. This being the first indication of brightness that Arthur has seen so far in this level, it grabs his attention instantly. He turns his head back, and when he sees it, stops walking altogether.

The Monument to the Great Fire of London rises high above the city they walk through. It is only a few blocks away, and its limestone column rises immense and white, the gilded pot of fire at its apex glittering in a world without light. The projections walking turn away from the streets that lead to it, and Arthur can see no one standing on its platform. It is so beautiful and bright, and yet abandoned. That is it. It must be.

Dominic and Saito have noticed that Arthur has stopped. Catching their gazes, he gently nods towards The Monument, and when he sees their gazes fly to it, looks away. Arthur settles his bowler tightly onto his head and begins to walk quickly. He crosses the street, passing Dominic and Saito, who smile at him slightly before moving towards the Monument themselves.

Arthur walks up to Eames, who is watching him in the reflection of a grimy shop window. Arthur lays a gentle hand on his sleeve, and leans in. “We’ve found it.”

Together they go, striding off down crowded city blocks until the crowds fall away and they must move silently and swiftly, lest they are noticed in the abandoned streets that surround the Monument like a deadly halo.

It is silent, when they finally reach the spire. There is not a single sound besides the pant of their own breaths. Arthur pauses; he cannot see Dominic or Saito. He assumes that they have preceded him, and begun to climb the tower on their own. It makes sense that the blackmailer would hide his secrets at the top – at the hardest place to reach. Eames stops for nothing and moves past Arthur, through the tower entrance, and out of sight.

Arthur steps quickly forward and into the darkness of the tower. He blinks, but his eyes do not immediately adjust to the dimness inside. He can hear the clatter of shoes upon steps above him, so he continues up. At first he stumbles, and then, as he becomes familiar with the height and width of the steps, and reaches out to place a hand upon the wall beside him, he finds a rhythm. After a few moment’s practice, he is able to make his way quickly, but stays pressed close to the wall for fear of stepping too far and off the spiraling stone stairs, to tumble into the abyss between their turns.

Arthur must pause and catch his breath several times during the climb, which surprises him, as he has always considered himself to be strong and healthy. Concerned by the time restraints of this project, Arthur pulls his lower lips into his mouth and bites it, steps upward once more. Finally, he sees light above him, and pushes forward to the top.

As Arthur steps out onto the viewing platform, he shields his eyes against the light, now bright after so long in darkness. When he uncovers them, he takes a step back, his eyes widening. The iron fencing that Arthur has seen around the Monument in waking life is gone. Now, in this Dream, all that lies before him is a few feet of stone, and then an endless drop. He must be careful. It wouldn’t do to jump off, or fall off, so soon, not with this job unfinished and hope dawning in him that perhaps it can be completed.

Dominic, Saito, and Eames are all on the platform as well. Arthur turns to look at them and sees something unexpected. There is a projection standing upon the platform with them, when all the other projections avoided this place. It is tall and very thin. Its hair is dark and unruly, and in the imaginary wind up here, it tumbles endlessly. It is wearing a neat, dark suit, with a cravat tied loosely at its neck. As Arthur looks at it, the projection turns, and smiles. It is the gatekeeper of Bedlam, the blackmailer’s companion. Arthur feels himself pale.

“It is so good to see you all again,” it says, and his eyes swing to Dominic, “Especially you, Mr Cobb.”

Dominic appears surprised to hear this. “And who might you be, sir?” he inquires politely. He has apparently decided to stick to politeness for now.

The projection smiles. “That is not really important. I’m no one, I believe.”

Dominic seems taken aback. Arthur is wary. It sounds almost like this projection _knows_ that it is a projection – something that he has never encountered before. Arthur reaches for his pistol and notices Eames doing the same.

Just then, there is a clatter behind them and Arthur allows his head to whip around to look. It is the man. The small, ratty man who has caused all this trouble. He stumbles out of the stairwell, panting with exertion. His eyes dart wildly around, landing on each of them in turn. He pales. “Who…what are you doing here…”

He has to stop for wild breaths. Arthur glances at Dominic. They do not need him here, not to discover his secrets. Dominic is unsettled – Arthur can tell by the white-knuckled grip on his cane as he steps forward and smiles for the man.

Just as Dominic opens his mouth to speak, the projection comes forward, the skin surrounding its uncannily pale eyes creased with amusement. It slips a long arm around the man’s shoulders, and he appears to calm slightly. He cranes his neck to see the projection’s face. “Who are they? How did they get here? Am…am I dreaming?”

The blackmailer’s voice trembles with anxiety, but nothing else does. The dream remains steady and whole. Arthur glances down to the streets below and sees not a single projection rushing towards the tower. Slowly, Arthur looks over the man. He is terrified, and nothing but the projection beside him seems to help his fear.

“Don’t worry,” the projection whispers, its voice carrying on the wind. “I’ll take care of everything.”

If this is some sort of Dream Security, then it is taking a form that Arthur has never seen before. Most of the Security that Arthur has encountered in Dreaming, including Fischer’s, has been terribly and mighty, striking without warning or thought. Dream Security is meant to be effective, but never subtle, and _never_ this malevolent.

The projection looks directly at Dominic.

“Do you know what the most… _virulent disease_ is?” It steps forward, bringing the man forward with him. They all watch the pair closely. Arthur takes a step closer to Eames and adjusts the grip on his pistol.

“I know what you would say, Mr Cobb. An idea. But you see,” it says as it turns to face Dominic, letting the man go and standing near the edge of the platform, “I have always believe it to be a spark.”

The projection snaps his fingers and flicks them towards the blackmailer, who looks pathetically confused. A small light flies onto the man’s dirty shirt, and smoke begins to rise from it. The man looks down and begins to pat at his shirt, first slowly, and then with increasing terror. The growing fire will not go out.

From there it quickly spreads up the man’s linen shirt, around his neck and head, and the downwards, until he is engulfed. The man shrieks and doesn’t stop, his voice carrying on in a never ending cry of pain and fear. He stumbles backwards and then falls over the edge, still screaming. All in the space of three heartbeats.

Arthur stares, his grip on his pistol loose with shock. Below, he hears a distant thud as the man’s body hits the ground. And then, a great _woosh_.

The projection smiles at them, and it is a very sharp grin. “For, you see, it takes only a tiny spark to begin a Great Fire.” Behind it, silhouetting, him, the city is growing brighter.

Arthur turns his head to look over the edge and sees that London has begun to burn. The flames that started upon the blackmailer explode, spreading over entire city blocks within instants, rising rapidly high and higher. But the city is burning whole – the Dream itself holds steady and does not fracture. That means that the blackmailer was not the Dreamer, as when a Dreamer dies, the Dream dies as well. Someone else has created this Dream, and trapped them all inside of it. Everything is suddenly hot.

The projection is holding a gun. Arthur begins to back towards the edge – dying will only send him deeper with this formula of somnacin, he knows, so it will have to be a fall that wakes him, even if it means falling into fire. He sees that the others have the same idea as him, as they all move towards the edge. By now, both Dominic and Saito have their pistols out.

Saito raises his gun quickly, snapping off a single shot, turning in the same instant and throwing himself off the tower’s edge. The projection shoots back, missing as Saito disappears from view. It turns to Dominic, but Arthur shoots first, the razor shot from his Compressor digging into the projection’s side. The projection snarls and turns, and Arthur watches as Dominic plunges off the tower’s edge, safe.

The projection raises its gun and shoots, but Arthur is already moving and it misses. A sharp retort echoes as Eames fires. The projection jolts, hit in the shoulder. Eames lunges forward, grabbing Arthur by the arm and pulling him towards the edge. The projection laughs harshly, maniacally, and raises its pistol. Next to him, Eames hisses with pain as he is hit. Arthur twists; they are at the edge, beginning to lean into open space, and Eames has been hit in the throat by the projection’s bullet, blood pouring out of him and his eyes unfocused already; as they begin to fall Arthur’s head snaps to the side against his will and his vision blacks out completely as a bullet enters his brain. The fire’s heat does not touch him.

\-------

Arthur coughs and regrets the action immediately, as he inhales more of the bitter surf he is immersed in and immediately wishes that he is, in actuality, dead. He attempts to place his feet beneath him, or his hands beneath him, but his footing is elusive and slippery and oh so soft. It is as if he is attempting to stand on sand. He chokes and twists, trying to right himself, but his clothes are dragging him down and his shoes are worse than useless. He holds his breath, or lack of it, in until he fears that his lungs will burst. The water, when he tries to look around him, is impenetrable, and burns his eyes.

Then a hand grips his elbow like a vise and yanks him upright, still gasping and coughing. As he catches his breath in heaves and leans, simultaneous, against the man beside him, the tide pulls at his legs and precarious balance, back and forth, back and forth. After a time Arthur peels his eyes open and is able to confirm that he, that _they_ , are standing on a beach.

The surf rises to their knees, and is quite dizzying. Arthur pushes off the figure next to him and stumbles forward, nearly going down to his knees at first and then, as a wave recedes, struggling free of the water itself. He coughs violently.

A rough cliff rises high above him, but the sun is behind him and the light drenches the entirety of the shore. Arthur turns to look at the sun – which is missing, and there is no fiery orb, only a great whiteness that swallows half the sky – and sees Eames.

He is standing in surf up to his ankles. His shoulders rise and fall as he takes great, deep breaths. His eyes are closed, and so Arthur stares. His linen shirt is soaked through, its wide sleeves clinging to the muscles of his arm. His hair has fallen into complete disarray, and it curls darkly across Eames’ face and the back of his neck, just touching his chin with its longest strands. Arthur breath catches in his chest, and Eames’ eyes open.

He squints, or glares, at Arthur. And then, Eames looks beyond him, and his eyes widen. Arthur’s heart skips and twists as he imagines that projection, the one who had shot them, standing just a few feet away, and he whirls. But there is no one there, only the cliff.

Which, now that Arthur gets a clear look at it, does not seem to be a cliff at all. He steps backwards, and feels a hand settle at the small of his back, steadying him. He doesn’t look at Eames but stares up at the structures above him instead, trying to puzzle it out. He looks at the base, where there are great beams of what looks like metal, or perhaps giant trees, buried in enormous dunes of sand.

These supports rise high into the sky above Arthur, and interlock with other sunken pieces, and Arthur realizes, finally, that this is a building. A rotting building, built of iron. The metal is rusting and pitted, nearly falling apart in front of Arthur’s gaze. The buildings rise up high, four or five times the height of London’s houses, and seem to continue forever. Arthur turns his head to look up and down the beach, but sees no end to the buildings at all. It is unfathomable.

Eames shifts next to him and says, quietly, “We should go. I don’t believe it’s safe here. And we must discover what level we have fallen into.” His voice is calm, but Arthur detects uneasiness in it. They died, in the second level. Wherever they are now, it cannot be good.

He pulls at Arthur’s arm and begins to walk towards the buildings – already seeming to lean over them, they are so tall – and Arthur follows. He is beginning to think that he knows which level of Dreaming they have fallen into.

“Dominic,” he whispers to himself. Eames, who has been striding quickly towards a thin and precarious-looking alley between buildings, stops.

“What was that?”

Arthur pushes past him and walks in between the buildings. The light immediately fades, leaving them in half darkness. He pushes toward the spark of light that marks the end of the tunnel. Above him, Arthur hears the groan of tortured metal. Eames’ shoes scuff the dirt, close behind him.

“Dominic has told me stories, about the research that he conducted in Dreaming, years ago.”

“Was this with Mal?” Eames breaks in.

Arthur frowns to himself. “Yes, with Mal. He would not tell me much, but he mentioned the fact that, at one point, he fell into Limbo. And by all accounts, it looked something like this.”

Arthur waves his arm at the metal above him, and water drops fly off in a spray. Annoyed at the weight of his clothes, his strips off his coat, wrenching the sleeves to free them from clinging to his arms. Clad only in soaked shirt and waistcoat, he proceeds, his coat dangling from his hand.

Eames is silent for a moment, and when he speaks his voice is hoarse. “And how did Cobb free himself from this prison?”

“He died, I believe. But we already know that that won’t work. It might even cast us farther out, into the Untempered Schism.” Arthur does not relish the thought of death. Not here.

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t be so horrible as that,” Eames quips, before pushing Arthur aside and squeezing past him into the light, the passage so narrow that they are pressed chest to chest for a long instant before Eames is free. Arthur stands, overwhelmed by Eames’ presence and words, until he can finally work himself free of the spell. By the time he emerges into the light, Eames is already past several more buildings, standing in the middle of a broad avenue.

And everything has changed. The buildings are no longer rotten and fallen, but upstanding and glittering, so covered by glass and gold are they.

Arthur wants to looks away from the buildings, but he can’t seem to be able to.

“I don’t think that gawking like a commoner is going to get you anywhere.”

He rounds on Eames, stung by the comment and willing to kill the man right here, and now, Limbo be damned. But he freezes, his eyes going wide as he sees what is standing just behind Eames. Eames’ face, full of gloating satisfaction, goes quiet and still, and he turns.

The projection is standing there, all dark curls and pale eyes. Arthur remembers keenly how it set the blackmailer on fire and tossed him off the Tower. Has it come to do the same to them, and toss them off the edges of Limbo?

Once again he wonders who is Dreaming this Dream. It is none of the team, of that Arthur is sure. But who? The projection is watching Arthur intently. It laughs, seeing Arthur’s expression, and smiles.

“You _are_ a quick one. Yes, Arthur, your mark never controlled this dream. I am the Dreamer.”

And then the projection turns and vanishes into an alley between buildings. Arthur is sprinting before he thinks, shock thrumming through him at the projection’s words, shoving past Eames and after the projection – but when he turns the corner and looks down the long, dark alley, the projection is gone. As if it had never been.

Arthur curses to himself and backs out of the shadows. How could the projection control a Dream? It is impossible, in Arthur’s experience. No projection has ever been complete enough, so fully formed as to be able to think and act on its own. This projection obviously is. But controlling a dream? That seems madness, to Arthur.

He turns to look at Eames, but he is walking away from him, back towards the alley that Arthur assumes they came out of in the first place.

“Eames!”

Eames does not turn back. Instead, he seems to be walking faster, and Arthur does not wish to lose him, especially in Limbo.

“God damn it! Eames, come back!”

Arthur runs to catch up, but Eames has been swallowed by the darkness of the alley, and by the time Arthur catches up with him, they are coming out onto the beach again. Heart beating fast, Arthur sneers at Eames’ back.

“What the hell—“ His voice halts midsentence as he Eames plunges into the surf and bends, reaching out. On top of the waves’ froth, floating delicately, is a pale, cream-colored fabric. And dark hair. Ariadne.

Eames is pulling her up, out of the surf; she is limp. Arthur stumbles over to them, unsteady on the sand, and reaches down as well. Together they pull Ariadne up and out of the water, her wet dress weighing her down. Her dark hair pools and swirls across her face. Arthur swipes it away. She is pale, the corners of her lips blue.

Pushing himself directly up against Eames, Arthur leans down over the girl, pressing his face close to hers and closing his eyes. The sound of crashing waves overwhelms his ears, but he can feel keenly in Dreams. She is breathing. Her breath sends hot puffs of air across his nose and cheeks.

Arthur sighs and stands back, stepping away from Eames, who cradles Ariadne close to his face. Eames’ gaze is searching.

“She’s breathing,” Arthur tells him, and tension runs out of the other man.

“I don’t know how long she was in the water – she was barely moving when I spotted her.”

“Do you think that it was the projection?” asks Arthur, attempting to stretch his mind around the sheer malfeasance of this projection; its obvious and malicious intent is quite beyond Arthur’s conception.

“Who else?” Eames snaps, and Arthur nods briskly in return. There is no one else in this Dream so set against them – it has to have been the projection. He turns away from Eames and watches carefully for any movement in the shadows, any sign that there is someone else, something else, here, besides the three of them. He wonders briefly about Dominic and Saito – did the fall from the Monument wake them? The impromptu kick would have sent them up a level, to Bedlam, where Ariadne was waiting. And his stomach twists as he recalls that Ariadne is here, nearly drowned in the surf of Limbo, quite unconscious. Dominic and Saito are in danger, and he can do nothing to help them.

He walks off the beach and back through the alley, into the Impossible City, Eames following with an insensible Ariadne held close to his chest.

\-------

It takes them perhaps thirty minutes, by the count of Arthur’s inner clock, to find a building that they can enter. All those immense buildings, so strange and tall as to scrape the sky, are locked. None of the glass in their windows shatters either, as Eames quickly discovers. It is a shame – these buildings are perfect to jump from, and they might have provided the perfect kick for them, had they been able to enter. Arthur suspects the projection’s meddling.

But after half of an hour, just when Arthur’s arms are beginning to ache from carrying Ariadne down the last few streets, they find it. A small house, Baroque in style, sits quietly between two giant buildings. They cast shadows that cover the house in darkness. Arthur wonders how such a normal house, one that even he could have been raised in, came to be here in Limbo. Perhaps it was Dominic’s once upon a time. That does seem the only explanation.

He doesn’t really care, though, as Eames walks directly up the small set of stairs, across the small porch, and throws the front door open. Arthur sighs, and follows Eames inside.

Eames turns and lifts Ariadne from Arthur’s grasp and turns, carrying her up a set of stairs that disappears into darkness. Excellent. A second floor. Arthur shifts his shoulders, grimacing briefly at their soreness, and then walks up the steps.

The inside of the house is, on the whole, dark. It is as if this house alone exists in perpetual night. Arthur pulls a heavy brocade curtain away from a window on the staircase, and light floods in. They are still in Limbo. He lets it go and takes the last few steps onto the second floor.

He is standing in a long hallway, and as he looks down it, he sees an open doorway. Light floods through. There is a loud _thud_. Arthur rushes down the hall, pulling his Lancaster out and holding it directly in front of him. He rounds the corner to the room and sees that it is a bedroom, Ariadne prone upon a still-made bed, Eames at the window.

Eames takes a deep breath, steps back, and then moves. He lifts his leg in one fluid step, bring it up almost to his chest and kicks out, his foot landing squarely on the window frame with a resounding _thud_. Arthur grimaces and puts his gun away.

“Eames!”

He kicks at the window again, and Arthur hears the wood splinter.

“Eames, stop!”

He turns, breathless. His hair is beginning to stiffen with salt as it dries, sticking out in odd directions. Arthur almost smiles at the sight – Eames looks ridiculous, really, and it’s unexpectedly endearing.

“What are you doing?”

Eames raises his eyebrows at him, and Arthur steps forward cautiously, watching out for any unexpected moves on Eames’ part. “I’m kicking the window out. It won’t open on its own.” He gives Arthur a look as if _Arthur_ is the crazy one, before turning and kicking the window again. The wood groans and the frame shifts. Arthur steps back.

With one more kick the window gives, falling slowly outwards, away from Eames. Arthur strides forward and hears a sharp smash. When he reaches the open window and peers out, it is just in time to watch the window, glass cracked and falling out in glittering pieces, slide off the porch roof to shatter on the stone beyond. It gleams in the sun.

Behind him, Eames leans over and picks Ariadne up off the bed. Arthur leans back against the window frame and watches him.

“Move. We’re leaving.”

“Wait a moment,” asks Arthur, and he moves forward to lean over Ariadne once more. He touches her cheek gently and reaches up, pulling at her eyelid to gaze at the eye underneath. There is no response to his probing, not even a twitch. Arthur gently slaps her cheek, just hard enough to hear it. Still nothing. “I don’t think that we should do this.”

“You must be mad. We have to leave, and now. This is not an option. I’m going out that window with Ariadne, and so are you – even if I have to push you out.” He pushes forward, forcing Arthur back against the window frame. Arthur stares up at him.

“We can’t, Eames, so stop. Look at her.”

Eames is stiff, his jaw set. He doesn’t look down at her. Only at Arthur.

“We can’t give her a kick. Her mind is…injured, if not gone completely. If we throw her out the window now, there is no telling what will be left of her afterwards. Let’s wait, just…just for a little while.”

Arthur reaches forward and lays a hand on Eames’ arm. Eames’ hands curl tightly around Ariadne. “Fine.”

He seems displeased, and Arthur understands completely. Arthur does not savor the idea of waiting here, where the projection lurks, for any longer than necessary. But he is also unwilling to risk Ariadne’s life and sanity because he is frightened.

“One day. And then we can go.”

Eames nods and turns away, lays Ariadne back down onto the bed. Her head falls to the side, facing away from them. Arthur watches him pull his gun out and walk to the window. He leans on the frame, watching the street beyond.

Arthur looks out briefly – there is a broad street outside (ironic, that, considering that in reality their bodies are sleeping at number 16 Broad Street). He nods at Eames and turns.

“I’ll find matches, and light some candles,” he says, and leaves the room.

\-------

Ariadne’s dress pools upon the floor – damp chiffon rolling over sharp whalebone in hills and valleys, and water seeps into the heavy carpet underneath. Ariadne herself is tucked into the bed. She has not woken, and her skin is unearthly pale, the blackness of her soaked hair and eyelashes makes her seem a wraith. White skin, over sharp shoulders and clavicles, is visible over the coverlet Arthur has spread over her. He cannot help but stare at her.

Eames’ hand is on his elbow, but Arthur fears he may be hallucinating. It is impossible to sleep in Limbo, and he is so very tired now, though he can do nothing about it. It has been almost a day. They should leave now, no matter that Ariadne hasn’t woken. He turns, and finds Eames’ face nearly beside his own.

Arthur inhales in a gasp.

He is not sure why he does so, because Eames’ invasion of his space is not an unusual thing – apparently Eames had discovered that being close to others was one thing that makes Arthur extremely, unequivocally, uncomfortable – and since he has gone to the trouble of doing so at least once a day. But in this moment the invasion feels different, brittle. Arthur leans back, slightly, to the side.

“I don’t think that she is going to wake up, Arthur. You can stop watching her now. Try and rest a moment,” says Eames, and turns his startling grey eyes upon Arthur.

Arthur leans farther away and finally convinces his legs to move. He takes a step back, but his knees have locked and he stumbles. A side table rattles and jumps as he jolts back against it, and Arthur turns, reaching out to grab the table as his knees unlock and he regains his balance, but Eames reaches out and grabs Arthur’s elbow, pulling him back a step and spinning him around so that they are face to face, inches apart. The side table hits the floor with a bang.

Arthur turns, and looks over Eames’ shoulder. Ariadne is still, unmoving as a statue. Arthur keeps watching her, just in case. He wants to her to wake up, to move, anything…

Eames shakes his elbow, and Arthur looks at him. “Stop _watching her_ ,” he growls, eyes narrowed.

Arthur draws in a sharp breath and, gathering his dignity, straightens. He narrows his own eyes at Eames and begins, “She is ill, Eames. Really, I know that you are anxious to leave, but I want to be sure of her state before we do anything – we can’t just leave her, but neither can we trust that moving between Dream levels will do the trick either – we have no reason to suspect that she will not be hurt even more greatly from that, and will you stop pushing me like this, I just -- “

Eames releases Arthur’s arms and, lightning fast, grabs Arthur’s jaw and forces his face up. Kisses him.

Arthur’s eyes fly wide and his lips firm against the invasion. “What –“ he manages out of the side of his mouth. Eames’ fingers stroke the skin under his jaw and chin and draw him forward. His eyes are open and pleased, as if, if he wasn’t kissing Arthur, he would be smiling. Arthur gets his arms up and around Eames’ arms and pushes back, against his shoulders, but the angle is bad, and he cannot get enough leverage.

So he shifts, bringing his leg and knee up to injure Eames as thoroughly as possible, but Eames is too fast and switches his hips in, blocking Arthur’s move. Quickly, Eames pushes back, his hands moving down to press at Arthur’s throat, sending him stumbling once more, but he pushes farther and farther, past the upturned legs of the fallen side table and a settee, until Arthur comes up against the wall with a jolt.

Arthur grunts at the shock of it. Eames smiles at him, charmingly. He moves his hands from Arthur’s throat to the back of his head. Arthur glares at him, spitting mad. He feels a bit betrayed, really. He had felt something between them, something delicate, something that wasn’t that _couldn’t have been_ this.

“Get your hands off me.”

“And why should I, when the feast before me is so tempting?”

“Damn it, don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to hear any of your bullshit. Just back off, and let me be.”

“I don’t think so, darling. I’ve this go for far too long.”

He leans forward again to kiss Arthur, and this kiss is not so chaste. Eames licks Arthur’s lips, quick as a snake, before nipping at them. Arthur remains as still as possible, knowing that this…this _teasing_ will end any moment, if he can just hold against Eames’ tongue and lips and eyes, staring him so coolly from such a scant distance.

This all proves futile when Eames’ fingertips brush against Arthur’s collarbone, having slipping inside his shirt and under his tie somehow. The other hand rests warm against Arthur’s stomach, and begins to slip the buttons of his waistcoat free, sight unseen. Arthur tries to turn his face away.

Eames finishes the last of the buttons and pushes the waistcoat back. He pushes up close to Arthur, so much so that there is no longer any distance between them, and kisses Arthur deeper. Arthur lets him.

His mouth opens for Eames’ tongue and he sighs, his eyes slipping closed. He thinks, for an instant, about biting down and making Eames bleed, and his lips twist with silent amusement. But he doesn’t bite down, and, in a moment of whimsy, he decides that he will not just _let_ this happen.

Arthur kisses back, slipping his tongue into Eames’ mouth and turning his head for a better angle. Across the room, he can see Ariadne. She is so calm and beautiful.

But Eames’ fingers are on the buttons of his shirt, and now they’re pulling back the soft fabric, worn by months of use, like silk on Arthur’s skin. He breathes fast and heavy, his reactions uncensored, his bare chest exposed under Eames’ eyes. Eames leans down and his lips press a soft kiss to Arthur’s clavicle.

Involuntarily, Arthur sighs, half moan and half released breath. Eames is so delicate, his lips moving as if he is whispering into Arthur’s chest, moving down and down until he reaches a nipple, licks it. Arthur’s unclenches his fists and arms, and leans back, closing his eyes to block out any glimpse of the girl across the room.

He lets go of the tension that he has been holding, the resistance buried deep within him to Eames, his actions, everything about him. Eames is hot, and wet, and hard, and pressed so close against him Arthur cannot help but feel what a splendorous thing Eames really is, despite, and perhaps because of, his faults.

Arthur’s very fingertips tingle and ache with his arousal, and his eyes fly open to see the grain of the floorboards above them swirling golden and dark together and away, across the room and along the room until the Interfaces of nature vanish into the darkness and Arthur comes, breathless.

\-------

The house sits next to a broad avenue – one that runs straight through the city and down to the sea. It feels as if they have been in Limbo forever, a lifetime. Ariadne rests, unmoving, on the bed. Eames stands behind him, one hand on the small of Arthur’s back and the warmth radiating from him distracting Arthur from worries about Limbo, the projection, and the rest of the team.

Arthur pretends that this is a house like any other, and glances out the window casually, at the street. A jolt runs through him, as he looks down the wide path to the shore and spies two dark figures half in the surf. Before he knows it, Arthur is running.

He turns, brushing against Eames, who is already leaning forward to look out the window himself, and sprints out the door of the room, down the stairs. Arthur pushes through the front door, across the porch, down the front steps, and pauses for an instant as he sees that the two figures have moved out of the surf, and have now become three.

It is bright out, and the reflections off the glass buildings confuse Arthur’s sight, so he slows down, reaching around him (and damn it, he’s forgotten everything but his shirt, trousers, shoes, and gun) to the small of his back, where he has tucked his Lancaster. It is heavy, loaded. He imagines the projection, and relishes the damage that it can cause.

Arthur walks quickly down the boulevard, sticking close to the buildings to stay out of sight, his pistol held low and his eyes darting about. He hears a curse behind him and the slam of a door, and knows that Eames is following him.

As he moves, the figures become more and more defined. One is tall, with dark hair. The other two are sticking close together, and one seems to be hunched over. With a chilling certainty, Arthur knows that the projection is there, confronting Dominic and Saito, whom it has finally managed to drag down here to Limbo.

Shortly, Arthur comes up to them. He steps carefully, forcing the hard soles of his shoes into silence against the stone earth beneath them. He slows, creeping up behind the projection as carefully as he can, raising the muzzle of his gun to point at the back of the projection’s skull, just inches away.

“If you so much as twitch, I will shoot you,” Arthur says, his voice hard.

Eames comes up behind him and stops next to him, raising his own pistol to point at the projection. “Same for me,” he says in a tone that sounds almost delighted.

Now that Eames is here to watch the projection as well, Arthur spares a glance for Dominic and Saito. Saito is slumped over Dominic’s shoulder, and Arthur can see his chest rise and fall with breath. Dominic is barely paying attention to the projection, his gaze darting around the buildings surrounding them. He must recognize the place. Arthur can only hope that returning here will not distract him.

A long moment passes, and then the projection begins to turn around. Arthur has barely seen the curve of its cheek and the corner of its smile before he shoots, the crack of his shot barely echoed, or perhaps barely preceded, by another shot – from Eames. Arthur pulls the pistol back as it whirs and clicks through a reloading cycle.

The projection staggers back a step, but stands upright. There is a rough hole in the side of its skull, next to the temple. Tiny cuts trace across the planes of its face – shards from Arthur’s shot gone wide. He can see a dark, wider cavity dripping bright blood over one of its eyes – Eames’ shot, which entered from the back of the head.

Arthur begins to lower his pistol, sure that their combined efforts have killed the thing, but the projection sucks in a deep and hollow breath. Its gaze turns and focuses on Arthur. He raises the gun once more. The projection scowls, its mouth twisting as it looks at Arthur.

“You _are_ a damned nuisance. It’s a good thing that you are in _my_ reality, now.”

Arthur refuses to speak to the projection – that would simply be beyond belief – but Eames has no such compunction.

“Your own little world, this? It seems a bit…shabby, to me.” Eames makes a show of smiling and tucking his pistol away. The projection’s eyes twitch over to him.

“Yes, it is a bit shabby. But then, I didn’t create this world, originally.” And at this it turns smoothly, seemingly unaffected by the dark wounds that gape in its face, sending vermilion blood down over an eye and cheek, and dripping down the back of its shirt so that its white collar is quickly turning a bright, lurid red. “That was you, dear Mr Cobb.”

Dominic’s eyes fix, suddenly and unerringly, on the projection’s face. He shifts his grip on Saito. “This is my world.”

Arthur cannot tell whether this is confirmation of the projection’s words, or if he is making a claim.

“And mine,” Saito whispers faintly; Arthur only hears his words on the back of a sudden sea breeze.

The projection stops breathing altogether, and Arthur shifts to get a better look at it. Its face is absolutely still, like marble. Its eyes, one pale blue and the other stained red, stare at Dominic with the utmost hatred. Arthur cocks the hammer on his pistol – not because he needs to, but because he hopes that the sound of it will break the projection’s concentration. It doesn’t work.

“This is _my world_ , and it always has been,” hisses the projection. “I want you out!”

Arthur tense, readying to shoot again, though he doesn’t know how much use that will be. Dominic smiles at the projection, coldly.

“I built this world. From the ground up. My wife and I gave our wildest fantasies shape here, as well as our most treasured memories. There is no way that this place is yours.” Dominic’s smile grows strained. Saito pushes away from him and stands upright. Arthur can hear the water in his lungs as he breathes. He still glares at the projection.

“You may have built this place,” the projection bites out, “But I was born of it. I am only person who has ever lived here, loved here, and died here. I am Limbo, and Dreaming, and reality. This is my home, _my mind_ , and you need to get out.”

“No,” says Eames quietly. “You are just a projection. Living, pulsing minds created Limbo, and Cobb’s mind here shaped it. You have no control over this place. You are not alive. This is our world, not yours.”

It turns to look at Eames, and blinks. “But I do control Dreams, Mr Eames.” It smiles. “I have controlled every Dream that you Dreamt this day. Did you not know that it was I who reshaped Bedlam, I who set London ablaze, and I who locked all the doors here? Your architect did not create this dream, I did. _I_ forced that weak man to write you all a letter, and _I_ made him easy to find, so that you would come to me. You cannot escape. I am the incarnation of every mind that has ever touched Limbo – I am the embodied desperation and intelligence of everyone who has ever had cause to fear dreaming. I am _very_ much alive.”

It stuns Arthur’s mind to consider this – that abstract emotions could shape themselves in Dreams, and not only into projections that plague the sleeping. This is a projection gone wild, rogue – a projection that has broken free of the boundaries of the mind and begun to not only act on its own, but control the mind’s of the living. A ghost, but so much more as well. It is terrifying.

“Why did you lure us here?” Arthur asks. He wants to hear it from the projection’s lips, though he fears that he already knows.

But the projection’s smile fades and it turns away from him, looking out past Saito and Dominic, over the crashing waves and the sea. Its voice is very calm. “I want you out of my mind. And the only way to stop such _accomplished_ Dreamers as yourself, who can delve so deep into me, and into everyone, is death.”

Arthur hears a deep, thrumming roar as the waves begin to recede from the sandy shore. The water begins to pile up, far away on dark sand. He sees white foam begin to form and a great wave tips over.

The projection again smiles now, wide and bright under the not-sun, and takes a deep breath, making up for the ones that it had forgone. “The sea is my heart, you know. And I will _drown your minds in it._ ”

The wave builds, and begins to speed towards them.

“Fuck.” Arthur looks around, but sees only tall, slick buildings, with nowhere to take shelter. Eames moves; he steps up right behind the projection and before it can move, presses the barrel of his pistol to the back of its head. Silently, he pulls the trigger. There is a sharp crack and even Arthur, battle hardened and determined, flinches as Eames’ bullet exists through the projection’s face, carrying most of it away in a mass of red.

Now faceless, the projection falls to its knees with a dull thud. It teeters there, mouth gaping. It seems as if massive, terrible damage is required to stop this projection. The wave, now close to them, collapses upon itself, and the dregs of its foam and madness rush forwards, towards them. Its might is spent, but not completely. The projection’s hands come up to its head, clutching at the red flesh there, and Arthur hears a smothered, stomach-turning cry come from it.

“Let’s go!” Arthur shouts; the roar of water is loud. He shoves the Lancaster into the waist of his trousers and gestures to Dominic and Saito. Dominic runs forward, catching up with Eames, and the two head for the house. Saito stumbles into a run and wheezes. But he is moving, and he follows the first two to the relative safety of the house. Arthur moves last, making sure that Saito is alright, and not about to fall.

When he glances back, the sand is empty; the projection’s body is gone.

\-------

A shrill scream echoes ahead of them. Arthur watches Dominic turn, his face creased in dismay. Someone says, “It’s Ariadne,” and Arthur realizes that it is his own voice. Saito’s face goes carefully blank, and Eames curses. They are almost at the door to the small house, now.

Dominic reaches it first and swings the door open. It bangs against the wall and Eames catches it, darting in behind him. Ariadne screams again, upstairs. Arthur sprints past Saito and yanks the door open, leaving the other man behind. His heart pounds with fear.

He bounds up the stairs and down the hall, into the single bedroom. Ariadne is sitting, pressed back against the headboard and bound up completely in the sheets. Her eyes are so wide that Arthur can see the white all the way around them. She is staring at Dominic, who has frozen at the foot of the bed.

“Ariadne, Ariadne,” he whispers.

Her eyes flash to Arthur, who attempts a smile before giving up on the effort. She only looks frightened. There is something desperate in her eyes, something animalistic. Eames is moving round the other side of her bed, where she cannot see him. Saito comes through the doorway behind them.

“She was unconscious,” Arthur says quietly to Dominic.

He flinches, presumably at the idea of unconsciousness in Limbo. “She was completely unresponsive?”

“Yes. Eames and I fished her from the surf.”

Dominic nods, frowning. “It could have been the water, that she undoubtedly inhaled, affecting her mind. It is still affecting her, it seems. The substance of Limbo is extremely dangerous to the mind.”

Ariadne whimpers and pushes back further against the headboard. Arthur can hear her voice and see her lips moving slightly, but she does not seem to be speaking words. He does not want to think about what that means, that she is so terrified, perhaps out of her mind.

“She has gone mad,” pronounces Saito calmly. She is not mad, she cannot be, Arthur refuses to believe that. He steps forward slowly, and Ariadne flinches back.

He holds his hands out to the sides. Eames continues to move towards her from the opposite side. Continues muttering gibberish, not noticing him.

“The water – how long was she under?” asks Dominic.

Arthur’s lips purse. He has no idea how long she struggled in the surf, dragged down by her dress. He doesn’t respond, afraid of scaring the girl. She pulls the sheets up closer under her chin. Out of sight, Eames says,

“Too long.”

Dominic sighs, and Arthur can see imagine him massaging his forehead. Ariadne whimpers, so Arthur stops moving.

“We have to get out. The effects of Limbo should lessen as soon as we are out of here, in any case. The rules are different here, her madness will not grow worse, as any of our injuries will. Grab her. We’re going out the window.”

Arthur hears footsteps and the swish of fabric, and knows that Dominic has gone for the window and is peering out. Arthur spares a glance for Eames and notes that he is almost directly behind Ariadne – her gaze is fixed on Arthur. Arthur quickly looks away, back to her.

Eames lunges and grabs Ariadne, his strong arms wrapping tightly around her and pinning her arms close to her. She shrieks and flails, struggling to get free. Arthur jumps forward and grabs her kicking legs. She lands a hard kick onto his jaw, but thankfully her feet are unclad and the damage is minimal. But it makes Arthur realize that, under the sheet Eames has pinned around her, Ariadne is completely naked.

Arthur pauses for an instant, and then grasps her tighter, using his hand awkwardly to pull the sheet closer around her. She is wailing now, crying into Eames’ neck, and he grunts with her movements.

“Shut up,” he mutters, and Arthur sends him a nasty look.

“Alright, quick!” Dominic shouts at them.

Arthur pushes forward, kneeling on the bed in order to get across it as quickly as possible. Eames moves backwards, Arthur stumbles off the bed, and together they carry Ariadne to the window. The curtains flutter around them. She is still struggling. Arthur looks at Dominic.

He leans over her, staring into her eyes and face. Then he quickly stands.

“Well?” snaps Eames.

“You’ll have to throw her out. The fall will kick her up a level.” Dominic appears no happier than Arthur is at his words. He grabs one of Ariadne’s struggling hands and holds it tight. “We have no choice.”

He leans over her. “Ariadne, it will all be fine. We will get you out of here but you have to hold still.” For a moment, she seems to go still.

Once Dominic leans back, she begins to struggle again, crying something that sounds eerily like, “No, no.”

Arthur looks at Eames for a long moment, then nods. He lets go of Ariadne’s legs and steps back. She kicks out, missing him, and with one smooth movement Eames hurls her out the window. Her shrill scream stops dead as the kick hits her. Eames tosses his head back and takes a deep breath. He looks at Arthur, sends him a broad smile, then places his foot upon the windowsill and steps out. Arthur steps to the window, and he is gone. Even the scant two-story fall is enough.

He glances back. Dominic and Saito are behind him, waiting. Dominic stares at him, long and hard, and Arthur turns, climbs smoothly out the window, and lets go.

\-------

The city screams. Fire climbs the walls of buildings, twisting and shimmering before trailing off midair, transformed magically from pure light to black smoke. They have a perfect view of it from the top of the Monument. The fire has surrounded the monument, but they will have to jump over it. Hopefully, the kick will hit them before they reach the fire.

Arthur puts a shaking hand up to his head, and spreads his fingers over the hot warmth of a bullet wound, from earlier. There is no pain, though there appears to be a lot of blood. Eames reaches forward and grasps Arthur’s tie, deftly untying it and winding it around his own blood-slickened neck tightly, where he was shot. It turns dark with blood in seconds. They must get out of here before they die again, and fall back to Limbo.

There is a rumble beneath their feet and Arthur widens his stance. He leans forward, carefully, glancing over the edge of the Monument platform, and then stumbles back. A great woosh of flame and dust and heat rolls up past the edge of the platform, boiling in the already ruined sky.

He feels Eames seize his arm and pull him close, and Arthur allows it, damn everything. The world begins to tilt and for a moment Arthur fears that the projection, the monstrous thing that is so much most than a projection, has returned and is twisting the dream around them. But no, this is much more real.

Arthur twists until he is flush with Eames and watches over his shoulder as Dominic and Saito grab a hold of each other, pulling Ariadne closer to them. She looks perfectly calm, much better than in Limbo, and her dark gaze meets Arthur’s for an instant. She mouths something that Arthur cannot make out.

He screams at her, “What!”, somehow knowing that her words are important and he should hear them. But Eames curses low, loud enough for Arthur to make out, and a great rumbling makes its way up Arthur, through his shoes and legs and torso, all the way to his heart.

He snaps his head around and looks at Eames. “They’ve blown the tower!”

The projections below have come for them. But it is too late, for they have caused too much damage to the Monument to stop the team from escaping. Everything is turning alarmingly to the side and the stone is moving out from under Arthur’s feet and everything is going so fast, so very fast as they fall --

\-------

The ceiling of Bedlam beckons. Arthur sits up and looks around. Projections tear at the bars of the cell they are locked inside of. Arthur’s head aches, and he touches it, gently, but the gunshot wound is gone. He turns, and watches Eames sit up quickly, feeling at his unblemished throat. Ariadne is lying on the ground, a dark flower of blood blossoming on the front of her dress. She gasps, and clutches at it. It appears to be a gunshot wound. Dominic is shaking Saito, just over to the side.

Dominic moves and leans over Ariadne, and begins whispering to her. She stares up at him, eyes lucid. Arthur sighs, and then hears a creak.

The cell door groans, strained by the massive weight of the projections pressing against it. They are terrifyingly intent. Their eyes twitch with every movement of the occupants of the cell. Arthur pulls his gaze away, and then looks back.

Then, above the crowd of projections, Arthur spies a tall figure. Arthur sees the tips of its dark curled hair, and a flash of its pale skin. He flinches back from the sight, a twinge of pain the only reminder of his recent death. When he turns, Eames is crouched next to him. Their shoulders brush against each other. Arthur ignores the shiver that runs through him and moves over to Dominic.

Quietly, so that Ariadne will not hear, he whispers into Dominic’s ear, “We have to wake up. Now.” Dominic looks up and Arthur gestures towards the crowd. Arthur watches as Dominic sights the projection; he goes very pale, and looks back at Ariadne. She has a hand wound in his sleeve. It is shaking.

Eames is still crouched a few feet away, watching the crowd of projections closely. The projection seems to be working its way through them, coming closer. Eames glances at Arthur and shakes his head. No help from him, then.

Saito moves over to them and crouches as well. “Is there anything high enough to fall from?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, I’ve already checked. The cell is bare.”

Saito grimaces in response. “We will have to fight, then.”

Arthur nods and shifts his pistol, still tucked into his waistband. There is no way that they will kill all of the projections. Absolutely none.

The projection slips through the last of the crowd and curls its long fingers around the bars of the cell. Arthur has a sudden terrible feeling. He recalls the wave that the projection conjured in Limbo, and how it could have easily drowned them. And the Tower in the last level, how the projection toppled it. Bending iron bars aside or opening a lock would likely be nothing to it. Eames pulls out his pistol and cradles it in his palm, eyes steady on the projection.

“No, no, wait,” comes a soft whisper from behind them.

Arthur turns. It is Ariadne, the hand knotted in Dominic’s sleeve shaking. She is very pale, but sane.

“If every cell here is the same cell, then every cell is this cell.”

Dominic frowns down at her. “What?” he asks, beginning to say more, but stopping at the look on her face.

Arthur understands. She is quoting his words to her from earlier. Dreams defy physics. Even the titanic certainties of Newtonian physics cannot govern dreams. If Ariadne made each and every one of these cells after the same pattern, then on the inside, they are all the same, no matter what is outside.

“Close your eyes.” Her voice is steadier, now. She looks at them all in turn.

Saito already has his eyes closed. Dominic closes his after a moment under Ariadne’s gaze. Arthur glances over at Eames, who is sitting in the exact same position, facing the cell bars, but with his eyes closed. The projection is looking at Arthur, its hand moving towards the heavy lock to the cell. Quickly, Arthur closes his eyes.

He feels nothing, but after a long, quiet moment, there is a loud clang as the lock falls open. Shock flies through Arthur and he stands, his eyes flying open and his hands pulling his gun out before he can think.

Ariadne is standing by the cell door, her hand over the lock. The projection is gone – all of the projections are gone. The only thing outside the cell door is a long stone corridor, running off to either side of the cell. She has moved them to another cell.

Arthur slowly tucks his pistol away, moving forward and looking up and down the corridor. It is completely empty. There is no sign of any projections nearby. Ariadne is tugging at the cell door, but can’t move it, so Eames moves to help her; together they drag the screeching metal open. Arthur darts through and into the hall. Dominic follows, his gun out. There are no projections.

Saito comes out when he sees Dominic’s nod, and soon they are all free. It is very quiet in the Asylum. Arthur hears no one else. Ariadne begins walking down the hall, and Dominic follows her. Arthur glances at Saito, who raises an eyebrow, and soon they are all moving, Arthur and Eames scouting ahead for projections.

Soon the hall ends at a heavy door. Ariadne reaches the handle but Arthur holds her back. Eames moves first, pulling the door open and darting through. Arthur watches him scan the area with his pistol out. He looks back after a long moment and shakes his head. No one. Ariadne pushes past and leads the way up a dark stairway. At the top there is another door, which she pulls open before Arthur or Eames can get to her, and strides through. Arthur curses under his breath and moves after her.

They are in an enormous room. The ceiling flies high above them, and the floor is wide, extending in a ring around a hole in the center. Ariadne has stopped, and is staring into the hole in the center of the room.

Arthur reaches the edge and looks down – below is the Asylum’s atrium. Gathered in it are all of this level’s the projections, staring up at them. Arthur hears a door click, across the room, and looks up to see the projection walking towards them. Arthur raises his pistol and, with a sharp crack, shoots. The projection stumbles as metal bites into it, but keeps moving.

Dominic is moving towards him, dragging Ariadne by the hand. He shoves her off the edge of the hole and dives after her. Arthur glances up at the projection, and then back – the two are gone. The projection has its own gun out, and Saito is falling. Arthur shoots the projection once more, and it shoots back. Arthur gasps as its bullet hits his side, taking the wind out of him. Pain blossoms and rolls through him, and he falls to his knees.

There are hands on his arms – Eames. The projection is running towards them. He hears it shoot once more, and feels Eames flinch against him But they are at the edge of the hole and, with a heave, Eames sends them over, and out.

\-------

He knows that he is awake because, though his mind is dull and tired, his limbs are fresh. He could jump to his feet and run, right this instant. But he nearly groans at the thought. Arthur allows his arm to roll over, and he reaches for the needle embedded in it.

It slips out with a gentle tug and he looks up to see Snow, Eames’ chemist, standing over him.

“Any ill effects?” the man asks. Arthur just glares at him and pushes himself up into a sitting position. He _does not_ want to talk about it. Eames walks over to them and bends, giving Arthur a hand up. Arthur pulls his coat up off the floor after him and shakes it out. He slips it on.

Dominic is helping Ariadne up, across the room. She looks much improved. Saito is leaning over the blackmailer, no, the innocent man, who looks far less than pathetic now. He has not awoken yet, and Saito is pulling the needle from his arm. Arthur walks over to them and leans over the small man.

He is alive and breathing, but very still. It seems as if he is sleeping. Arthur casts a look at Saito and leans over the man. He gently touches the man’s shoulder, and then reaches under his chin to feel for his pulse. He is alive, but he is not waking. Dominic touches Arthur’s shoulder and he stands.

“His mind is dead,” says Dominic quietly.

Arthur turns, surprised. “Was it the projection?” He has never heard of anything like this happening – it is beyond belief that a projection could destroy the mind, as well as destroy a Dream. He takes a step away from the man.

“Is the projection in his mind?” asks Saito.

Dominic frowns down at him, and after a long moment answers. “It said that Limbo was its home. And Limbo is, even without somnacin, a kind of shared Dream. Everyone and anyone can participate in it. I think that it may be able to escape this man’s mind through Limbo.”

Saito shifts and reaches for something. His gun. “Fine.” Arthur moves to stop him, but not fast enough. Saito brings the gun up to the man’s head a fires a single shot. The man’s head jerks, and his chest stills.

Arthur stares at Saito; there is a shout outside the building.

“Let’s go,” says Eames, and tugs Arthur away. They move quickly to the door, where they tug the chair from under the door handle, down the stairs and out into the street, where they dodge curious bystanders and disperse, away from the coming authorities and the Londoners; all of them possible agents of the Projection.

\-------

Arthur presses the handkerchief close to his mouth and nose, and still breathes only shallowly. He can smell the stink of the Thames through the thin cloth – in fact, Arthur has a suspicion that he could smell the stench of the river – more a sewer by now, really – all the way in St John’s Wood, which should be impossible, but is apparently, and unfortunately, not.

On the wharf beside him sits a small pile of boxes, consisting of two trunks, three hatboxes, and an unusually heavy carpetbag perched on top. With a keen eye he checks to be sure that his cases are locked tightly, and show no sign of opening on their own, or with a little help in the hold from a greedy sailor, before waving a tall man forward. Arthur reaches into his waistcoat, brushes his fingers against a wooden die, and pulls out a cool coin. He flips it to the man, overpaying, he is sure, but not particularly caring. The man certainly pockets the coin too quickly for Arthur to have given the correct amount.

Arthur moves forward and lifts the carpetbag off the top of the pile. He will keep the PASIV with him – no need to take the chance that it will be discovered. The tall man bends down and hefts one of Arthur’s trunks, turning to carry it up the gangplank and onto Arthur’s ship out of London. He watches closely, to be sure that the man is not making off with anything. The weight of the PASIV weighs heavy against his foot, where Arthur set it, making him more than a little nervous.

It is not a good idea for Arthur to be carrying this Device with him. He would much rather have tossed it into the Thames days ago, but such equipment is terribly expensive. And any mail shipment would have been inspected. He must carry it out of England himself. London is too dangerous to remain.

As Arthur, Eames, Saito, Dominic, Ariadne, and Snow fled the innocent man’s apartment on Broad Street, a crowd began to gather. Saito’s shot had been heard. Londoners began to climb the stairs, searching for the source of the shot, and when they reached the man’s apartment and found his body, one woman screamed, loud enough for the team, by then several streets away, to hear. Arthur discarded his gun in a pile of refuse, and the rest of the team followed suit before splitting up. An hour later, most of them were gathered in Saito’s residence.

The news trickled in slowly over the next several days. A manhunt had begun on Broad Street, searching for the murderer. Which had quickly devolved into a witch-hunt when a single deep needle mark had been discovered on the man’s wrist, and it had been concluded that the man had died, not from a gunshot wound, but in Dreaming. One woman had already been caught, decried a witch and Dreamer, and torn apart by the mob. Rumor was, the Queen was returning from self-imposed exile in the countryside. She would find the killer, or worse, killers.

As a group, the team had decided to split up and leave England. It was no longer safe here – though the projection had failed to kill them, it had succeeded in driving them from the country. Arthur only hopes that the thing will remain in this country. He hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time in the past week, and neither has the rest of the team.

Saito has chosen to remain with his company here in England. He is confident of his ability to stay alive. Dominic and Ariadne left two days ago, and are traveling south together to seek out Yusuf. They hope to find a cure for Ariadne’s nightmares, and Dominic’s guilt. Arthur will return to San Francisco by ship, the only unmonitored escape in the entire country, and it is only a matter of time before the government notices that. He wants to be home, away from this country and its deadly dreams, and safe.

The dockworker sets Arthur’s trunk down upon the ship’s deck and gestures to a sailor in the rigging. This man comes down and drags Arthur’s things away. The tall worker begins to return for the rest of Arthur’s things.

A light hand lands on Arthur’s shoulder and he jumps and turns, dropping the handkerchief in his haste and taking in a long gasp of river air, gagging at the taste of said miasma on his tongue. By the time Arthur has regained his composure he has also masked his annoyance at Eames, who is now standing before him, looking entirely surprised at Arthur’s reaction.

Arthur lifts the handkerchief to his mouth as smoothly as is possible before adjusting his stance so that he is half facing the ship and half facing Eames. He glances at the tall man handling his trunk and says,

“I must assume that you are searching out employment.”

For he cannot believe that Eames is employable in many places in London, not with his reputation and previous dealings. He would be, frankly, lucky if the fishwives considered him, Arthur muses.

“Unfortunately, no. There is somewhat of a dearth of employment for someone of my skills in London just now. And there will be for some time yet, I am afraid.”

Yes, that is true. The man stumbles with Arthur’s trunk as he reaches the end of the gangplank and steps onto the sway of the ship, and Arthur frowns. It is true that Eames is unemployable. Arthur hears fearful whispers of Dreaming in the streets, even now. When did you last dream, they ask. Were you alone?

He will be making no money now. Not even in secret. Now is the perfect time to leave London, while they yet live.

Eames’ walking stick raps hard against the cobblestones, drawing Arthur out of his thoughts. He looks back to see the head of Eames’s walking stick resting against the conjunction of thigh and groin, pressing against the fabric of his trousers and drawing the it tight, suggestively taut over the swell of his penis; Arthur rips his gaze up and away, in time to see Eames lift his top hat off his head and run a hand through his hair. He does seem uncommonly well dressed today. Eames lifts his walking stick up and tucks it under his elbow, his eyes tightening with a smile. Arthur looks away.

“I’ve decided to leave London.”

Arthur’s gaze snaps back.

“And go where, pray tell?”

Eames allows his smile to spread, and the glistening tips of his teeth show for an instant between his lips.

“Well, I had thought America. San Francisco, to be precise.”

He knows where this is going. Eames is coming with him. To Arthur’s city, to Arthur’s home. Well, if Eames believes that he will be able to simply move in with Arthur, he is wrong. “And do you intend to, promote your wares?” Arthur asks, his focus now on the ship entirely. He cannot look at Eames, not now.

“Of course I will, darling.”

Arthur refuses to look. He catches the gaze of the man who has brought some of his trunks aboard, and who is now speaking with a sailor onboard, and raises an eyebrow. The man better get back here now for the second trunk. If he doesn’t Arthur will personally mug him to retrieve his money, and send the man off with nothing. He grips tightens on his own walking stick.

“But only to a select few.”

The man is coming back, but not fast enough. Arthur’s stick begins to rap sharply against the ground. When he gets there, Arthur steps forward and holds out a hand, stopping him.

“No need. I have more suitable assistance, now.”

The man blinks and then sneers at Arthur, but all Arthur care is that he is leaving. He turn back to Eames, holding the handkerchief close to his mouth to hide the brief smile that flashes across it.

“Well, aren’t you here to assist me with my things?”

Arthur turns and walks up the gangplank, quickly looses his balance on the rickety wood, and refuses to be grateful as Eames slips up beside him, carrying a hatbox with one hand and catching Arthur with the other.

“As you wish,” he replies, and they step onto the ship together.

\-------

\-------

The slats of the cabin door are placed close together, but they let light and shadow through, so Arthur has been sure to flip the lamp’s switch and plunge them into darkness. They don’t need light for this.

Eames is hard, inside him and against him; their chests are pressed flush against each other and they breathe the same stuffy, sea-cabin air. Arthur fists his hands in Eames’ shirt and Eames presses him back against the wall, thrusting slowly, his every movement a thrilling torture to Arthur. He grits his teeth, holding back heavy breaths until he cannot take it any longer and gasps, taking in the heavy, hot scent of Eames.

“Arthur, Arthur,” murmurs Eames in his ear. Eames twists his head and bits onto Arthur’s earlobe.

Arthur hisses and twists, shoving Eames’ dick deeper within him. He throws his head back at the jolt of pleasure that runs through him, and slams his head on the cabin wall. He feels _afire_.

They continue to move, slowly, together. Slow, heady twists of arousal course through them, only enhanced by the unpredictable shifting of the ship itself and the tightness of their quarters. Arthur tries to shift, to brace his feet against the floor, but the position is awkward so he settles for letting Eames support him, muscles straining and sweat slicking his skin.

Eames thrusts up again, pushing Arthur’s back tight against the rough wood wall, and the combination sends Arthur’s hands fisting tighter, tearing Eames’ shirt with a dull ripping sound, and he bears down on Eames, taking in a slow, hissing breath. Eames’s teeth snap shut with a loud clack and his head falls back. He groans, pushing Arthur so tight against the wall that he can no longer breathe at all.

And Arthur comes, vision darkening to nothing and sensation flooding him so strongly that he loses track of where he ends and Eames begins, and he simply falls into being two, rather than one.

A long moment and several long, deep breaths later, there is a knock at the door. Eames jolts against him and Arthur throws his head back, knocking it against the wall in an attempt to give himself some clarity. He blinks, hard.

“Sir, can I help? Is there anything I can do for you?” the ship’s valet calls from outside the door.

“No!” Arthur calls back. “I am perfectly fine.”

His voice feels thick, but the valet seems to notice nothing, and Arthur listens to his footsteps recede. He smiles at the ceiling, hidden by darkness. He looks down. Soft light slips through the thin slats of the cabin door and crawls over Eames’ face, circling his unfathomable eyes and dangerous lips. They curve into a smile as Eames shifts downward, pulling himself out. Arthur staggers, and leans against him.

They take two steps together, Arthur forward and Eames backwards, until Eames’ back hits the opposite wall. Arthur unlaces his fingers from Eames’ shirt. It is very nearly steaming in here, but he leans his head forward and rests his head against Eames’ hot chest. Gently, he pulls Eames’ shirt back and feels his chest, curling his fingers around a nipple and bending towards it, nipping at it with his teeth.

Eames leans his head back, and Arthur reaches up, feeling the smile on his face with his fingertips. He smiles as well, into Eames’ skin.

And closes his eyes.

\-------  
END


End file.
